


A Game Of Gladiators

by SoulOfSnow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Crossover, Multi, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-05 06:39:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulOfSnow/pseuds/SoulOfSnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Historical AU of ASOIAF with hints of Spartacus/Rome.<br/>All across the seven kingdoms arenas play host to the games of Westeros, where lanistas put forward their best gladiators for victory on the sands. But beneath the blood and glory, the struggle to stay alive becomes evermore difficult for both slaves and noblemen alike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sansa: A champion arrives

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to establish the story as best I can; it sounds great in my head then when it comes to writing it out I fail, sorry! I know there are some plot holes, but I'll iron them out as best I can. So just enjoy it, it's just a bit of fun (unless you're one of my gladiators then you might just die :D).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa witnesses a new slave brought to the House of Baratheon, but she is not the most interested in the new stock.

 

She hated watching. It was her least favourite task of anything Cersei would ask of her; that and attending her wretched son Joffrey. The boy was foul mouthed and mean- spirited, with a tendency to raise fist before question, much like his father.

“Look how well Sandor has progressed, Father. I told you he could be trained.” Joffrey leaned forward eagerly in his chair, turning his eyes only briefly from the fight to address his father. Robert spat into the sand and grunted.

“Slaves are like dogs; they train better with rewards.” He replied, sipping his honeyed wine. Cersei lifted her eyes to Sansa and for a fleeting second Sansa saw a smile so venomous it could knock the life from any of the House of Baratheon’s gladiators. Sansa flinched when Barristan cracked his thick leather whip into the blood-soaked dirt and pronounced Sandor the victor. He pulled Janos up from his back and called forth the next two competitors.

Even beneath the shade of the canopy extending from the red-stone villa, Sansa was melting in her thin robes. The leather collar around her neck; a sign of her enslavement, was chaffing against her ivory skin. _I want this to end_ , she thought to herself; watching Boros twist on his heel and drive his wooden sword through the air to meet flesh with the flat of the blade. Meryn reeled and took to one knee submissively, barely able to withstand the force of such a blow. _I wish I didn’t have to watch._ Sansa had been a slave since she was able to walk; taken from her mother and the Dominus that kept them both, to the House of Baratheon; blissfully unaware that Robert was the richest lanista in all of Westeros. She had always hated blood, and to see it spilled for sport made her stomach heave.

Circling the fighting men, the other gladiators stood proud and strong; bruised and bloody from their attempts at claiming the honour of champion of the House of Baratheon. Sandor was the biggest by far; standing almost a foot taller than even the Doctore; Barristan. Blood stained his canvas cloth and oozed black and thick from a split lip and a cut above his eye. He stood favouring his left foot, and Sansa could tell that any amount of walking was excruciatingly painful. _But not as painful as the memories of that scarred face, I’d bet_.

The whip broke Sansa’s train of thought, and Barristan found himself forced between Meryn and Boros who had decided to make things more personal. She noticed Cersei roll her eyes and finish her cup of wine, stifling a yawn behind her husband’s back.

“You should have sold that oaf when your brother offered terms, my love. They do naught but bicker like women.” She said, snapping her fingers in a command for more wine. Sansa took the jug and poured carefully; Cersei hated it when she spilled a single drop.

“Swap wood for steel, and then we will see who is the better man; that’s what I say.” Joffrey mused.

“You’d have two of my own gladiators fight each other? You foolish child; the true loser would be _me_. I cannot afford to lose stock so close to the games.” Robert’s disapproving look lingered on his son a moment, before he turned to angle his plump body awkwardly to face his wife. “And did I ask for your advice, woman? No, I rather think I did not. Neither of you know anything about gladiators. That’s what happens when you marry a wench with a father more interested in the politics of war than of the true glory of Westeros; the arena!”

Sansa turned to leave as Cersei rose to retreat inside, most likely to save from beating her husband to death with her wine cup, but then the gates that ran alongside the arena were opened by Baratheon guards, and a horse and cart wheeled in slowly, with mounted soldiers either side. Robert clapped his hands together and let out and terrifying roar of a laugh, easing from his snug chair and onto the sands of the training arena. Cersei turned and lingered, with Sansa and Jeyne at her sides as was their duty.

“Is he alive?” Robert asked one of the soldiers, walking to the back of the cart, eager to see inside. His son ran to his side, eyes wide with wonder.

“Yes Baratheon, he yet lives. Though it took five of us to get him in there once he realised where we were taking him, but the blood was spilled before we made for your school.” The soldier and two others dismounted and carefully prized open the doors. For a few moments nothing emerged, until one soldier scrambled inside and kicked the slave from his mobile cell. With his hands bound, the man fell on his face and swallowed sand, spitting it out in thick brown clumps. Robert shoved Joffrey aside and lifted the man to his feet, one meaty hand firmly on his shoulder.

“Very good! Very fucking good indeed! He may survive his first taste of the arena yet, I think.” Sansa could see his face clearer now; yellow hair, greasy and straw-like from remaining unwashed for so long, and a dark beard framing his strong cheekbones. If it weren’t for the dirt and sweat, and the smell, he’d have been almost handsome.

Cersei seemed to think so. Her hand found her neck and she dared scrape her teeth along her bottom lip. “Champion.” The word fell from her lips before she could regain her composure, and she quickly looked at Sansa. “Our champion; Sandor… wash his wounds and bathe his bruises. He has earned that much at least. Jeyne—prepare a bath, I wish to cleanse myself of the smell of blood.” In a flurry of crimson skirts, the Domina disappeared back inside the red villa.

“What is your name, slave?” Joffrey sneered, putting a cruel sort of emphasis on the final word.

The golden-haired man looked at him, jaw clenched in an attempt to hold back saying what he really felt. “Jaime.” He replied.  


	2. Sandor: Too naive for this world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is sent to tend Sandor's wounds. She is surprised at how he fears pain, as he is surprised by her gentle nature.

When she offered the linen cloth, Sandor turned away grunting something incoherent. _Did she take that as a sign of weakness?_

“Please, Sandor, Dominus would see you well again for training on the morrow.” This time the girl tried to seem more comforting, kneeling before him and lifting her hands toward his face, but he could smell the fear seeping from her pores. For a moment Sandor paused; eager to see whether she’d dare touch the scarring than ran veiny lines down the left side of his face. The slight hesitation Sansa gave made Sandor shove her hand away.

“Bugger off girl, I’m tired.”

Sansa stood and smoothed down her robe. In the dimness of the cells she was barely visible to him, save from her long auburn hair that caught the light of the fires just so that it seemed to dance a hundred different shades of red. “Domina sent me here—…”

“…Dominus said this and Domina said that; you’re like a little bird aren’t you, girl? Taking orders from Dominus and twittering them in my ear like an irritating little sparrow.” Sandor reached for the clay jug on the floor beside his cot and pulled the cork free.

“Well, I’m sorry that you find me irritating, but Dominus requests that you fight Jaime tomorrow and—…”

“…Who?” Sandor didn’t bother with a cup; he let the bitter wine trail down his bare chest, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand once he had had his fill. He winced when the red liquid burned his cut lip.

Sansa huffed, obviously annoyed but too airy to allow it to dislodge her courtesy. “The new glad—…”

Sandor interrupted her again, this time with a thunderous laugh that made her jump. “…don’t call him a gladiator yet, little bird. He might not make it through training.”

“And neither will you if you do not let me tend your wounds.” Her sudden boldness drew silence from them both.

At last Sandor relented. “Fine.”

Sansa knelt once more, placing her hand on Sandor’s knee as she dropped to the floor, and soaked the cloth again in vinegar and water. This time she seemed sure not to hesitate; cupping his chin with her left hand and dabbing ever so gently over the oozing cut on Sandor’s lip. He winced and caught her wrist, moving the cloth aside. “That fucking hurts you know, girl!”

Sansa tilted her head. “I’ve seen you cut through men like a knife through soft cheese. Imagine the pain _they_ felt.” _I know the pain they’ve suffered; I feel it when I kill them._ Sandor didn’t honour the girl with a reply, but kept his face still as Sansa cleaned the dried blood from his chin. He could feel how her fingers actively avoided the scares across his cheek, as though touching them might cause them to spread across her hand. He wondered what her story was; a pretty little body slave with gentle yet calloused hands and an almost regal nature. Was she highborn; cast aside for some treacherous past? The soft tickle of her breath against his scarred skin as she leaned close to focus carefully around the cut above his eye made his body tense, and suddenly Sandor pulled away.

“That’s enough, little bird.” He said with a tone of as little emotion as he could muster. Sansa scrunched her nose for a moment and her lips parted, but she shrugged and stood instead of voicing her concerns.

“Cersei will be entertaining her brother for dinner tomorrow, you and yours will be expected to swap wood for steel and put on a good show for him.” Her eyes narrowed and she bit her lip a moment. “Sandor?”

“What?”

Sansa opened her mouth to speak, but then she turned and braced herself against the iron bars that lined the adjacent wall to his cot. The door was also made of bars of thick iron, but opened for the slaves to come and go before retiring; bringing food and tending wounds. “Did you hear something, Sandor?” Sansa poked her head through the gap between the bars and the door, only to swiftly retreat when a girl’s scream echoed through the stone passageway. Sansa dropped her bowl of water and cloth and cupped her mouth. Sandor was on his feet before his brain could ask him what the fuck he was doing, and he pushed Sansa hard up against the wall shrouded in darkness. Only one candle burned that side of his cell, and he quickly blew it out before covering Sansa’s mouth to silence her cries.

“Don’t make a sound now, little bird; do you hear?” Sandor pressed himself against her with his free hand beside her head on the wall. Even in the shadows the whites of her eyes shone with fear. Sandor waited as another scream, this time accompanied by pleading sobs, echoed towards his cell. _Don’t make a sound, little bird. Don’t make a fucking sound_.

It wasn’t until he heard Barristan dash down the passageway with whip in hand that Sandor finally relented and dropped Sansa from up against the wall. “Get out of here and back to your chambers, do you understand?”

“That… that was a girl… that was J—…”

“…it was no one, little bird. Sansa; don’t talk about this with anyone,” Sandor warned, stepping back to allow the girl some space. Sansa was shaking with fear. _She is too naïve for a place like this. She is too naïve for a_ world _like this._ “Sansa do not go twittering your pretty words back to Domina, not now and not ever.”

Barristan had hold of Jeyne by her shoulder; clinging to her torn robe to cover her breasts. Sandor wondered who had feigned injury for her this time; Janos or Boros, he could not be sure. He shot Sandor a strange look, but was marching too fast passed the cells to catch a glimpse of Sansa.

“The second entrance, little bird; use that one and get back to your chambers.” Sandor wrenched the tired iron door to allow her passed, which she did so quickly, never once turning to see him before she left, or to offer thanks for… for what? _You did nothing but frighten her more, foolish dog_. He picked up the bowl and cloth and tossed both onto the small desk that furnished each cell.

Sandor lay back on his cot and stared up at the sparse stone ceiling. When he licked his lip tentatively; it was not vinegar he tasted, but the sweetness of Sansa’s breath that lingered but a while longer. Long enough to see him to sleep; perhaps the best he had succumbed to in a while.


	3. Robb: A champion leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb sells one of his best gladiators to the Iron Islands own House of Greyjoy, in hopes a deal might be made.

“Dominus, the man is ready to go.” The Doctore of the House of Stark entered with eyes scouring the floor, as though he feared looking up might be an insult of his position. Rodrik had always been the same. Eddard had treated the man as a friend, something Robb was attempting also, but behind friendly exchanges and well-meant smiles, Rodrik wanted little and nothing to do with the world outside the arena. _Only an honourable man would forsake freedom to train others in his shadow._ Rodrik had won his freedom almost 10 years passed, when he was young and the sword felt lighter in his hand. The years had given him grey hair and a rounded stomach that might deceive one in to believing he did not train every single day of his life.

“Thank you, Doctore. Tell me, what is the mood among the gladiators? Are they disheartened by their champion’s departure?” Robb knew that Theon had made very few friends among his men. He had been drafted to his stock when Greatjon was rising in the ranks, only to overtake him in both agility and wit. There had been such a time when the Stark gladiators kept a tally of the men they killed in the arena; a sort of competition to outdo one another. Robb had put a swift end to that once Rodrik had notified him. Eddard would never allow something like that. “Our men fight for honour, not for fun.” Those had been his father’s words—something for Robb to remember him by, except for a forlorn widow and a cold villa.

“I can’t say as they’ll miss him, Dominus.” Rodrik looked up then, and allowed for a small smile to dislodge the wrinkles forming around his mouth. Robb gave the man leave and turned back to the window in his chamber. Sheer blue drapes danced in the mid-morning wind, something he was accustomed to in the North. He stepped through onto the balcony to watch a few of his men train. Galbart was favouring his right hand, he noticed, while Greatjon had a gash the length of his forearm oozing when he flexed his muscle. _They will never be victorious like this,_ he surmised. _My only hope was Theon_.

Down in the training area Theon stood, proud and strong and carrying what little possessions he had in a sling over his shoulder. Robb had given him a cloak and new shoes to wear for his leaving, something which had seemed to approach faster than he realised. He had only given Theon two more fights since the deal was brokered; small local town fights that barely won him enough coin to buy the man new armour. _Balon won’t like that_.

Robb soon joined the men, who fell into line as he approached under Rodrik’s orders. Wooden shields and swords, nets and tridents fell to the floor and each man stood with his hands behind his back.

Robb greeted them warmly. “I have been watching; you are improving.”

“Dominus, the horses are ready—we should make for the Iron Islands before the rains.” The Stark soldier inclined his head respectfully and took Theon’s sling from his shoulder, carefully fastening it to one of the saddles. Theon caught Robb’s eye and smiled a touch dangerously.

“Rodrik; order the men inside for food and water, I shall send a slave to see to that wound too, Greatjon.” Robb gestured to the giant’s arm and frowned. Blood and yellow puss seeped down along the man’s wrist and dripped onto the sand. Rodrik cracked his whip and the men fell into line, following one another in to the barracks until only Theon and the horses remained.

Robb stepped forward and smiled, but it was Theon who spoke. “Are you going to tie my hands together, just in case I attempt to flee, Dominus?” The jape would not go unnoticed with most men, but Theon was different. They had been as brothers ever since Theon had been sent to work as a house slave for Robb’s father. After catching him fighting one of the guards, Eddard put the boy to training instead of killing him like most men might.

“I’m not your Dominus anymore, Theon.” Robb replied. “But you’ll always be my champion.”

“Aye, your first and only once I start fighting for the House of Greyjoy. Most men would call you a fool for selling me on.”

“But you’re not most men, are you Theon?” Robb smiled, but there was a hint of sadness creeping in behind his eyes. _Perhaps I am making a mistake._ “Remember the promise you made me, brother.”

Theon looked down at the muddied sand of the Stark training arena, his usual smirk fading. “I remember.” He looked up to find Robb expecting him to recite it. “I am to remind Balon Greyjoy the debt he owed your father and the House of Stark. I am to remind him that the price he paid for me was a gift and that if he wishes to retain such a deal he should consider your terms.”

“Which are?”

“To consider joining stock and entering the games as a single unit; if one of _his_ men stands victorious, then the future of said alliance will be Greyjoy. If one of _your_ men stands victorious, the alliance will hold the name Stark.” Theon rolled his eyes then. “You know I can beat any of your men easily, Dominus. Why would you offer something you can’t even win?”

Robb smiled. “Balon Greyjoy doesn’t know that, and I am sure he wants to prove himself against Robert Baratheon. No other house has won against his gladiators since he married the daughter of a man from the order of Maesters. Tywin Lannister has more money than we do.”

“But his stock is—…”

“…bigger, Theon. He might not have men of a calibre such as you, but more men win more money.” Robb stepped back under the stone archway and gestured for one of the soldiers to tie Theon’s hands.

The young gladiator laughed. “So you _do_ think I’ll try and flee?”

Robb tilted his head a little. “Only back to me, gladiator.” He watched as the Stark soldiers fastened Theon into the saddle of his horse and mounted up. The large iron gates twisted slowly open and allowed them through. Theon turned and gave Robb one more smile; this one far more genuine than any he had offered since they were boys.

“I’d call him back if I were you, Robb.” Catelyn stepped out from under the archway and watched Theon leaving; the horses becoming mere specks on the Kingsroad. Strands of red hair fell from her window’s knot, licking at the damp air. Robb noticed the gaunt look on her face, and knew she had not slept again.

“Come inside, mother. It’s too cool out here for you.”

“Rickon broke another jug of wine. It spilled over my new dress and the slaves can’t get the stain out.”

“That boy would do well in the arena, with a temper like that.” Robb smiled and placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder, but she quickly pulled away and turned to face him.

“I will _never_ allow my boy to kill other boys for sport, do you understand? You should have stopped this madness when your father…” Catelyn looked away, the pain obvious for her son to see, but then again she rarely disguised it when it was just the two of them.

“You allowed Jon to train as a gladiator, mother.” Robb said plainly.

Catelyn shot him a warning glance. “Not my blood.” She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and swept back inside. 


	4. Cersei: He did not yield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert plays host to a showing for his brother and wife, and Cersei finds herself more interested than she first thought.

What had intended to be a small welcoming for her brother Tyrion, had now turned into a showing for their enemies. Robert enjoyed making a show of things, another thing he and his wife did not agree upon. He had chosen a newly built arena in Flea Bottom; a small, fledgling establishment that had very little in the way of comfort. It was common knowledge that the wooden structure was built for common men to play at the games; but in light of the wealthiest lanista in Westeros honouring the smallfolk with his presence, his family and rivals were seated in the podium; the highest honour among spectators. Still, the common people were far too close, and Cersei could smell their rancid, unclean stench even before half the arena was filled.

“Smell that? That is the smell of fighting spirit!” Robert managed to stuff himself awkwardly into the small wooden chair at the front of the podium, overlooking the entire arena, and immediately ordered wine. Sansa stepped forward with a jug for Cersei, but even wine would not settle her stomach.

Behind her, the crimson drapes pulled back and their guests arrived. Stannis Baratheon, Robert’s brother stepped out first. Robert rose, and finally Cersei mirrored him. _We sup with our rivals and call them guests; we are the fools for this._

“Brother! Take a seat beside me,” Robert engulfed Stannis in a fierce hug, one which he did not return, and found himself coerced into a corner. He extended his arm towards Cersei as if to greet her, but Robert batted his hand away, “never mind that, share drink with me, please.”

“I am surprised there is any left.” Stannis was a cold man; always grinding his teeth and never smiling. Perhaps he had once, Cersei imagined, but then again growing up with Robert for a brother could not have been easy. There had been a time when brothers joined together to create a school of the finest gladiators in the realm; Robert’s strength and Stannis’s discipline—but difference of opinion had seen the end to that alliance. Stannis skulked off and married, setting up his own school and taking the name of his chosen location; Dragonstone. _There are enough Baratheons in this world for a lifetime_. 

A few moments later, she arrived in all her crimson glory. Melisandre swept through the drapes and took a cup of wine from the tray Sansa carried, smiling sweetly and taking a sip.

“Wife.” Stannis did not even bother to turn around; it was as though he sensed her before she even broke word.

“Cersei Baratheon; a beacon of beauty as always.” Cersei smiled tentatively as the red haired woman took her place beside her, offering a sip of her wine. _You offer me my own drink and call it a gift. We are the fools in this._

“Hello Melisandre.” Cersei was a smart woman; she knew how to play the game better than any of them. She took Melisandre’s hand in hers and kissed her fingers softly. The red woman smiled and inclined her head, allowing a few red curls to fall over her face, shrouding her from the view of the men.

“The light within you shines bright, my friend. The Lord of Light looks down upon you.”

Cersei smiled. “Doesn’t he always?” Cersei had heard much and more about Melisandre’s chosen religion; this Lord of Light. Cersei had always believed in the Faith of the Seven, but Melisandre had warned Stannis that trusting in the Gods of the men you have slain will bring bad luck. Sometimes, when things did not go her way, Cersei believed it could be possible; that the Targaryens who had once ruled the rosters were favoured by her Gods, but then she needed only to look to her husband to see the culprit of her woes.

“Your son Joffrey; does he not wish to watch the games?” Melisandre’s voice; thick with an untraceable accent and purring like a cat, broke through Cersei’s distant memories and reminded her of where she was.

“My son will watch the games, yes. Not these petty alley brawls.”

Melisandre looked sarcastically shocked and stood, gaining the attention of a few of the smallfolk around them. “This, my sweet friend, is not a brawl in some street, no! This is the people’s games!” Cheers ran through the crowd, who clapped and stomped their feet, demanding blood. It was not customary for a woman to address the people before a fight, but Melisandre lived by her own rules.

The first two gladiators took to the ring, introduced by their Dominus. Robert embellished Ilyn’s introduction as though he were of noble blood; calling him the silent slayer, and a murdering bastard. He was right in that, at least; Ilyn had had his tongue cut out by his last Dominus and so silent was his only option. He could make a strange cackling sound when he raised his sword to the crowd to garner a reaction, but other than that the man was mute. Cersei wondered what it felt like to wait for your name to be called to slaughter, just behind the iron portcullis of the barracks. Her brother Tyrion favoured watching the onslaught from there with the gladiators, though she could not understand why. _Perhaps it smells better down there? Nothing could be worse than these bloodthirsty commoners._

Stannis wasted no time glorifying his gladiator; he announced Othell to the sand and sat abruptly, grinding his teeth. Melisandre clapped her hands and sat forward, as eager to see the action as Cersei’s son might, twittering on about how Othell was improving his technique.

 _I’ve changed my mind._ “Sansa, bring me wine.” Cersei held her cup in her left hand and awaited the welcome liquid to be poured. Sansa stepped forward and did so, as eloquently as she always did. She only stumbled when Ilyn smashed Othell against the barrier and the podium began to tremor. Moments later, Othell lodged his axe in the heel of the Baratheon man’s left foot, sending Ilyn crashing to the floor, his steel helmet slipping off.

“Othell is working a good strategy, my golden friend; to cut the giant from the roots, and then it cannot stand tall.” Melisandre offered a sensual smile, twisting a lock of her red hair around her finger. Cersei nodded her head and took a sip more wine.

“Yes, he is putting on quite the show.” As the words fell from her mouth, the life fell from Othell with his own axe buried neatly in the back of his skull. Ilyn hobbled on one foot, raising his arms to the crowd and cackling. “He _was_ putting on a good show.” The smiles exchanged this time were far less sincere.

“Well brother, it seems the mistake lies in abandoning blood, do you not think?” Robert grinned at Stannis and ordered more wine. The Dragonstone man said nothing, only adjusted himself in his chair and awaited the next competitor. _Stubborn to the end._

Thoros was a giant of a man; standing almost as tall as Robert’s own Sandor, with thick black hair that fell to his shoulders. He was not a handsome man; scars had left his skin lumpy and discoloured, and his lips were wormy and fat. Nevertheless, in the arena it did not matter what you looked like, so long as you lived to the end. Cersei looked over her shoulder at Sansa and offered her glass for more drink.

“Tell me, is Sandor fighting fit?” She was careful to keep her voiced hushed, so that Melisandre would not hear and take thought that Sandor was too weak.

Sansa looked shocked at being addressed by her Domina in public; something which Cersei had to admit was rare. _Such a pretty little thing, and so obedient._

“He is, Domina. But he does not fight today.” Sansa replied. She looked timidly in the direction of Robert. “Dominus selected another to face his brother’s men.”

Cersei turned just as they led the next gladiator out from under the portcullis. He had been washed since last she laid eyes on him; the golden haired slave from the cart. _What had been his name?_

“My newest gladiator; Jaime. If he wins, Stannis, he’ll have more whores than a brothel with a face like that, do you not agree?” Robert slapped his belly as he chuckled, stretching out his stout legs. Cersei sat forward, resting her hand on the wooden frame of the podium. Had this been Robert’s doing? Or had Barristan suggested such a match? Cersei could not understand why either would risk honour for a match with such uneven odds as this. Jaime was tall enough, and his shoulders were broad and powerful, yet he still required two hands to wield his sword, whereas Thoros used only one.

“Surely this contest is—...” Cersei turned to her husband to offer advice, but she could not understand why. She had seen men fall as the result of poor matching half a hundred times, but this seemed different. _He was different_. She attempted to get Robert’s attention again, but Melisandre took her extended hand in hers and shook her head.

“I would not get involved,” She whispered, the ruby at her throat glowering suddenly, something Cersei did not notice before “he’ll only shout you down.”

“And you’d know all about that, with a husband that barely utters a word.”

“In front of Robert, yes.” Melisandre shook her head ever so slightly. “Stannis has learned when it is best to let Robert have his glory; now would be one of those times.” She gestured languidly to the two empty jugs of wine at Robert’s side. Cersei had not taken note of how much her husband had drank since their arrival, but looking at him now she saw the way his eyes were glazed over, and he lolled a little in his chair.

“Start the damn fight before I piss myself!” He roared, managing to sit forward a moment before flopping back in his chair. Stannis cringed and leaned a little to the other side.

Jaime was instantly kicked to the floor, Thoros proving the greater even before steel was involved. His sword came crashing down, and Jaime only just rolled out of the way. Cersei’s heart was in her throat, sitting on the edge of her seat as the men battled directly below the podium. _Is this how every lanista feels when his men take to the sands?_ She wondered, but the look on Robert’s face told her otherwise. Stannis too sat forward, grinding his teeth and muttering corrections whenever Thoros made a miniscule error.

“He always does that, why does he do that?” He muttered “I must tell Davos to stop him from doing that.”

“My love, Davos can only teach what he knows; it is up to the men to trust in him and use what they have been given.” Melisandre offered a soft smile, but her husband dismissed her, edging forward further. Instead the red woman turned to Cersei, who gasped as Thoros cut Jaime’s arm with the blade of his sword. The crowd screamed and cried bloody murder, one woman even passed out and was carried along by the wave of smallfolk rushing to see the fight unfolding below them.

“Davos is our Doctore,” Melisandre said, sipping her wine “he is a man of great honour. He once competed in the games held in the honour of Aerys Targaryen, but his life was spared by Stannis who asked that he take the loser to his newly established school.” Jaime swiped at the great man’s feet, but Thoros jumped out of the way with impeccable elegance for a man of his size. He darted around the arena and took Jaime by surprise, driving the tip of his blade through his shoulder.

“Gods that could have killed him!” Cersei watched the golden haired gladiator fall to one knee, and Thoros kicked that from under him. Jaime rolled onto his back. _Do not admit defeat now!_

“Finish him!” Robert yelled; his voice thick with wine.

“Have you lost mind?! Jaime is one of ours! We cannot afford to—…”

“…Silence before I send you in for the next round.” Robert tittered at his jape, but his eyes did not tell of any jest. He was drunk and angry and tired—a poor mix for a man such as himself. Below, Jaime reached for his sword but Thoros kicked it away. Cersei leaned over the podium, with intent to beg the man’s life.

“Enough, Thoros.” Stannis stood and folded his arms. Thoros dropped his sword and roared at the crowd, who cheered and cried for the victor.

“Seven hells; why did you end the match?!” Robert stood with fire in his eyes and squared up to his brother. Over Robert’s shoulder, Stannis gave Cersei a strange look.

“He yielded.” He replied plainly, looking back at his brother. Cersei turned her attention to the sand, where Thoros disappeared under the portcullis, and Jaime twisted over onto his hands and knees, spitting blood. _I watched him, I watched closely—he did not yield._


	5. Arya: From shackles to chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya has been captured by a lanista, after running from her home in the North.

When the Dominus and his wife returned from their trip to the capital, Arya was forced out into the baking sun to tend her Domina, her sandals so worn they gave no relief from the burning sand between her toes. She pulled at the leather collar around her neck, trying to loosen it somewhat before Selyse caught her and gave her a sharp whack across the back of the head.

“Stop doing that!” She whispered, her voice straining with annoyance. Arya gave her a sour look and rubbed the back of her head. They had cut her hair short since her arrival, after Selyse had spent several hours trying to untangle the mass of knots. The spindly woman had said she looked smart, but Arya thought she looked like a boy.

Dominus approached the villa first, his face weary and withdrawn from lack of sleep and an uncomfortable journey home. He took a cup of honeyed wine from Axel and stepped inside, seemingly unaware the Doctore was calling for him from across the yard. Domina stepped from the carriage next, dress in fine red robes of silk and lace. She smiled and greeted Selyse with one of her usual sensual smiles and followed her husband inside.

“Well, I guess that’s that then.” Arya turned swiftly on her heels and made for the cells, but Selyse clamped down on her shoulder with spiny fingers and twisted her back round.

“Tend your Domina.” She said; the firmness in her voice dusted ever so lightly with the threat of consequence, should Arya disobey. _This is what I ran away from; stifling oppression and chains I cannot break._ They hadn’t broken her yet, but Arya could feel the weight of deviance beginning to make her crumble.

Inside, Domina was in her chambers, red drapes thrown open to allow the midday sun to warm the room naturally for the evening. That was the thing about Dragonstone; no matter how stifling the heat was in the day, the nights were dark and cold. Knowing Dornish red was Domina’s choice of drink; Arya took a jug from the waiting table outside the room and entered silently. Domina stood over a large oak desk pressed up against the wall, sifting through papers. She looked up when at last she noticed Arya’s arrival, and smiled.

“Yes, I could do with a drink—bring that here, girl.” Her voice was heavily accented, and sometimes Arya struggled to comprehend her instructions. But her Domina was a woman of structure, as was her husband; they participated in the same routine almost every day. That being said, when night fell and the cold winds rose, Melisandre was a shadow of the Domina Arya was forced to serve.

She poured a cup of wine and handed it to Domina, before stepping back against the wall beside the door and looking out across the ocean. _Freedom; so close and yet so impossible to grasp._ There had been a time when Arya would have cursed such a view being so touchable to herself, but not to the slaves of her old home. Now she was in their position and could not think of anything else.

As if Melisandre sensed her sadness, she suddenly stood between the young girl and her view, one hand on her hip. “Will you brush my hair, Arya?” She asked, speaking gently as if with caution. She sat at her vanity table along the opposite wall draped in crimson velvet and pressed the hairbrush into Arya’s hand. She had soft, pale fingers with prettily manicured nails. Arya stole a glance at her own; brown and green dirt settling under them and her skin cracked and split along the edges. There had been such a time when she would have felt revolted by such a sight, but the years had only thickened her skin, as well as dirtying it.

Melisandre’s hair was deep, bruised red; long and wavy like ribbons of silk and no tangles seemed to catch in the bristles of the brush. “Did your mother ever brush your hair, sweetling?”

Arya glanced up to offer a painted face void of emotion to the reflection of her Domina in the mirror. “No.”

Melisandre smiled. “No, _Domina._ ”

“No, Domina.”

“I should have known, considering the state you were in when we found you.” Domina sipped her wine and placed the cup on the table before her, nestled between gold and silver jewellery, most cut with ruby red stones. None were more dazzling than the one Melisandre always wore around her neck; a huge ruby that of the colour of burnished copper in some lights, and then more like the tips of the flames of a fire in others. _I could pay for a ship to sail me across the narrow sea with a necklace like that._ “Do you like it?”

“What?” Arya jumped back into the room, locked in thoughts of terrible red things she could suddenly not remember. Melisandre laughed and turned in her chair to face her slave.

“You should say; I beg your pardon, Domina?” She said; her smile small and her eyes cold “And I asked you if you liked my necklace?”

Arya nodded, picking at the strands of hair twisted between the bristles. “Yes, Domina.” Melisandre rose from her seat and walked over to her hearth. She gave Arya a certain look, and the girl knew instantly to light it. Arya knelt before the small iron door and unfastened it, adding a fresh log from a basket Domina always kept well stocked.

“Did your mother have fine jewellery?”

“My mother was a slave, Domina.”

Melisandre smirked. “Was she? And who did she tend?”

Arya had prepared for a question like this, but suddenly she felt the heat from the hearth melting all thoughts from memory, and she was at a loss. “She… she was a body slave.”

“Yes, but for whom?” Melisandre was beginning to lose patience, Arya could sense it. She stood and faced her Domina, noticing how the ruby at the woman’s throat burned like Arya’s cheeks. “Who was your mother a body slave for, Arya?”

In that moment, Arya wanted to tell Melisandre the truth and nothing else. She wanted to explain how she ran from her home in the North to be rid of the oppression and slavery, to board a ship and head across the narrow sea—to the promise of a Queen they called ‘the breaker of chains’. _No, I can’t; ladies of position do not run from good homes._ Arya wondered what her mother would think if she was found here; they would surely meet at the games. She could only pray with every fibre of her being that Melisandre only took Selyse. _And Dominus didn’t pick Gendry. I mustn’t forget that in my prayers_. “Robert Baratheon, Domina.”

“Men don’t have female body slaves, child.”

“I meant his wife; Cersei Baratheon once of Lannister. My mother served them until her death.”

“And they did not keep you?”

“I ran away, Domina. I ran before they could find me—in the night. One of their slaves helped me.”

“Which?” Melisandre was clearly testing the young slave; setting Arya up for holes in her story.

“Jon, his name was Jon.” In that moment, her half-brother’s face was the only thing she saw. He was smiling and mussing her hair, once again long and knotted. And then he was standing before her in the rain as he once had; blood covering half his face and his arms bruised, favouring his left leg. She could tell he was crying; his voice cracked when he told her he was leaving.

_“I’ll speak to her, Jon. I’ll make mother change her mind.”_

_Jon shook his head. “This isn’t your mother’s fault, it’s mine. But she was right; I’m going to die in the arena. I need to leave this place and find freedom.” He hugged her then, pulling her out from under the archway into the fierce sheets of rain that engulfed them both. She sobbed and clung to his cloak, begging him to try to win his freedom._

_“I can’t, Arya; they’ll kill me.”_

_“They won’t, I won’t let them!” Arya could feel his hug loosening, and then his arms fell away and he stepped back._

_“I have to leave now, little sister. Look after yourself and your brothers won’t you?” With his final words, his voice was broken and weak, barely audible over the heavy downpour. He offered a wary smile, and then disappeared from the yard through the godswood._

“Robert doesn’t have a slave named Jon.” Melisandre took the cup of wine from her vanity table, leaning her hand on the glass top and raising an eyebrow suspiciously. Arya turned to face her Domina and glanced at the ocean.

“Jon ran away too.” 


	6. Robb: The wares of the Riverlands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb visits his uncle in the Riverlands, and finds himself unable to avoid buying new slaves from a familiar slaver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that so far not a lot has happened and it can be a little boring, but have patience! I'm trying so desperately to establish the story without boring you to death! I'm sorry!

There was something welcoming about the Riverlands that drew Robb here more than anywhere else in Westeros; the people were no more friendly than in winter town, and the trade was of no more value to him than his usual wares, but the warmth that kissed his skin—never daring to be too warm or too cool was exactly what he needed. And of course, it gave him chance to catch up with his uncle; Edmure.

Robb marvelled at how the town’s people threw themselves at Edmure Tully’s feet; he was the undefeated leader of the Riverlands Army, who had helped drive the Targaryens across the narrow sea during the Great War. Robb was just a child, but Edmure had been young and fit. However, Tully was not a man who lusted for blood. It was duty and honour that drove him to the cause. And of course; Edmure never failed to remind Robb how he thought only of his family as he laid waste to Targaryen rebels.

“It is a shame your mother would not join you for this trip, I miss my sister these days.” Edmure slipped passed a few smallfolk eager to greet him, offering them each an earnest smile. Robb walked beside him, musing over the various sales along the carts and stalls.

“She hasn’t been the same since my father died.”

Edmure scoffed. “Don’t lie to me nephew, your mother is a strong woman. Cat wouldn’t falter as she has in front of all who once looked to her for guidance. No, it’s Arya who did this to her.” Robb closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting all anger and frustration subside before he dared speak. Arya had run away over a year ago; disappearing in the dead of night. It had been Robb who had found her unused bed empty and cold, but no amount of searching brought her back home.

“Emotions were raw,” Robb said softly, angling his body round a pot-bellied baker and his tray of pies “Arya was—is just a child; she ran because she was scared and because her brother and father were lost to her.” Robb knew that wasn’t entirely true, and no doubt his uncle knew the same. Edmure rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers, bringing his slave close with a fan to ease the discomfort the heavily armoured man suffered from in the midmorning heat. Even when he was on leave, Edmure was rarely seen out of armour. They turned the corner and headed down a few winding streets before filing out into the centre of the town. Children jumped in and ran around a marble fountain in the middle of a semi-circle of old buildings; armourers and painters, dressmakers and slavers, all trading in one place. Some were familiar faces, or perhaps their offerings were familiar, he could not be sure. At that point Edmure broke off, spotting one of his fellow brothers-in-arms by the stonemason’s shop. Robb slipped between a few carts wheeling back the way he had come and found himself browsing through a selection of vegetables and fruits from Dorne. The woman selling behind the wooden stand was clearly Dornish, with gorgeous dark skin, shoulder-length brown hair and green eyes that flashed when she looked up and smiled at him.

“See anything you like, ser?” She asked, and only then did Robb notice the leather collar around her neck. Her smile dropped when a bald-headed man in his late forties stepped out from the canopy behind her. _Does he think I’m going to steal her?_ Robb attempted to pay him no mind, but noticed the man wrap an arm around her waist. _She’s Dornish, aye, but far from home. Too far._ Dornish slaves were incredibly expensive due to the notion their women were said to be wild and untameable. Robb knew better than to believe such tales; their women were strong and defiant. The bruises on the slave girl’s arms did not go unnoticed—even this seemingly demure young woman had put up a fight. As Robb walked away from the stall, he prayed she had not given up yet.

“The great lanista of the North!” Black Walder Frey had a voice that could turn milk sour, and a face that could rot meat. He was tall and broad with lank black hair and dull grey eyes that never seemed to catch the light and express much if any emotion. He was foul-tempered and foul-mouthed, with a talent for hurting his siblings.

But Robb was polite and honourable until the bitter end. “Walder Frey, good to see you.”

“Robb of the House of Stark, what brings you to my stall? Care to sample my wares?” If Black Walder was not the spawn of the Stranger, then his father certainly was. Walder Frey was old and worn; with skin like cracked leather. He sat with two slaves fanning him under a faded yellow canopy, sipping honeyed wine. When he slowly raised his hand, a few of his ‘wares’ formed into a line and stood to attention, like broken toy soldiers misshapen and unwanted. Walder Frey was a rat among dogs; selling his own offspring as slaves to fill his purse. Mind you, he had enough to live the life of a Maester if he so wished.

Robb stole a glance at his slave; Tom and then turned and smiled at Walder. “Gratitude, ser—I have a slave.” A few of Walder’s children looked visibly relieved, slumping forward a little as though standing were a great pain. Most were young and male; with the same pinched cheeks and lank hair that mimicked their father’s. Others were older, male and female who looked to have worked as slaves before—calloused hands and marked necks where once a leather collar suffocated them. Robb wondered which was worse; being sold by your father, or having to return to him. He expected the latter, and offered a kindly smile at one older woman.

“Perhaps your mother would want a slave?” Walder was ever the persistent of men, tapping his bony fingers along the arm of his wooden chair. Before Robb could reply, Walder pressed on. “And of course, some are capable of fulfilling a variety of tasks. Roslin?” At the mention of her name, a younger girl bundled in a thick brown cloak lifted her head and her long brown hair fell from her face. She shot terrified glances between her father and Robb, who could not imagine what to say to make her feel better. Black Walder stepped towards her and the girl reeled, but before she could turn from him, he stood behind her and yanked at the cloak around her shoulders. She gasped and closed her eyes, visibly shaking.

“That’s enough…” Robb could not bear to see the girl suffer any longer. Both she and Black Walder looked at him with a puzzled expression, but Walder himself simply smiled. “My mother’s slave Mordane tires easier, in truth. I’ll buy her from you, ser.” Roslin quickly pulled the cloak back up, hiding anything that might have been revealed by Black Walder’s heavy-handed undressing.

“Very good, Stark. I am sure Roslin will please you.” Robb handed Walder a few silver coins and gestured for Roslin to step free from the line of siblings. But she remained, and grabbed the hand of the brown-haired boy beside her.

“Olyvar.” She said softly, looking at him with deep-set despair in her eyes. _They’re close, and she does not want to lose him._

“I’ll take the boy from you as well, Frey.” Not wanting to waste any more time, Robb handed Black Walder the money and took the rug he had purchased from Tom, passing it to Olyvar to carry.

“Gratitude, lanista—I wish you luck in the games.” Walder chuckled as his son emptied the coins into his hands, and Robb knew the sentiment was shallow. But to be as far away from Walder Frey as possible was not far enough. He took his new slaves back the way he had come, searching for his uncle Edmure.

Then he stopped and turned to face the three of them. Roslin’s eyes were focussed on the ground, and she reminded Robb of Rodrik; obedient but only out of fear of rising above his station and being punished. Not that the Starks were one for punishment. _But then there was Jon…_

“Are you naked beneath that cloak?” Robb asked the pretty little thing, gesturing to the old worn security blanket she was engulfed in. Roslin nodded, stealing a quick glance at her brother.

“Yes, Dominus.” She replied quietly, her voice as frail and weedy as her stature. Robb turned slightly and found the first clothing stall closest to him, offering the woman a few coppers for a simple beige-coloured robe. He commanded Olyvar and Tom remain by the stall, and took Roslin by the arm, gently pulling her to a secluded corner behind a trading canopy.

“Here, put this on.” He said, and turned away to allow her to dress, partly shielding her with his body from onlookers. Even with his back to her, Robb could sense Roslin’s mistrust, especially when he heard her cloak drop to the floor. When at last she was fully-clothed, he couldn’t help notice her slim figure and narrow hips. She was pretty enough; with thicker hair whereas most Freys were cursed with lank locks. She was doe eyed and innocent looking, but Robb would be a fool to forget her genes. He slipped between the stalls and passed a cart, heading back towards his slaves.

“Dominus,” This time Roslin’s voice was more audible and had a renewed strength that carried it easily within the space between them. Robb turned and regarded her a moment; realising that the dress was probably too big. Roslin tilted her head slightly, and then picked a leather collar from the stall beside her. She held it out to him somewhat timidly “I am your slave now, Dominus.”

Robb walked back towards her and took the collar form her hand, brushing against her fingertips. _Soft hands, no callouses—this is her first time away from that wretched man._ “Turn around.” She did as she was bid and lifted her hair off her back, allowing her Dominus to fasten the collar around her neck. Robb was sure not to make it too tight, but even so, when Roslin turned to face him he could see how uncomfortable it made her. 


	7. Gendry: Everything went black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry must show what he has learned at the Dragonstone school, but fear and anxiety cloud his judgement.

He had never used a spear in his life, and starting just days before a fight was the last thing Gendry ever thought he’d find himself doing. It felt heavy and unbalanced, and a tiny tip of jagged steel didn’t feel like enough to cause any damage and actually win. But his Doctore told him he’d make a fine spearman if he but his mind to it.

“Just focus on the targets; the neck, the chest and if all else fails—the face.” With the whip in his right hand, Davos pointed at each key weakness on the wooden training dummy with his stunted fingers, choosing not to wear his gloves for a change.

“How am I supposed to hit a man in the face if he’s wearing a helm?” Gendry stabbed the butt of the spear into the sand and flexed his fingers. Davos turned suddenly, curling his hand into a fist and would have slammed straight into the bridge of Gendry’s nose, had the lad not suddenly flinched back, stumbling a few steps behind him.

When Gendry opened his eyes, Davos stood before him with his eyebrows raised. “Men will always protect their eyes—they fear what they cannot see, and so fear even more so _when_ they cannot see. I could have easily swung my spear down and driven it through your belly. Even a man wearing a helm would respond as you just did.” Davos unearthed the spear and handed it back to Gendry, moving to stand beside him. “Aim for the eyes, but be prepared to strike the very second he flinches.”

Gendry tried a few practice lunches, but found his aim was way off. He aimed for the eyes of his wooden opponent but hit his left shoulder every time. Davos stood back; offering guidance where he felt Gendry needed it. He knew as well as Gendry did that the lad was likely to lose heart if he failed too often. _I shouldn’t be fighting in this tourney; I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready._ Gendry swung again, this time the spear glanced off the top of the head.

“Seven hells!” He exclaimed, and Davos chuckled a little.

“Try again, lad—aim for the nose and maybe you’ll hit the eyes.”

Gendry pivoted on his back foot, twisting slightly to smack the spear against the dummy’s side, before jabbing once more and hitting his left eye. Without hesitation, he stabbed the motionless gladiator in the chest and froze, panting heavily. Beads of sweat ran from the ends of his black hair and down his bare back; cutting through the dirt that covered his skin to reveal a fresh pinkness beneath.

“Doctore,” Arya surprised Gendry and Davos both; appearing from the villa a silent as a shadow “Dominus summons you.”

Davos looked a little concerned, but clapped Gendry on his shoulder reassuringly. “Gratitude, girl.” He replied, heading into the bleak black villa with his head hung low. Gendry stabbed his spear into the sand once more, and turned towards the water trough outside the cells opposite the villa, keenly aware Arya was following him.

She sat on an old faded beige stool that once had belonged to Domina, watching him clean the blood and dirt from his fingers. “Has Domina worked out who you are yet; Arya of the House of Stark?” Gendry knew everything about Arya there was to know, or so he thought—they had been on the run together for six months before they were captured by slavers. That had been the first and only time he had seen her cry; begging for her mother and brother to come and save her. The memory made the hairs on Gendry’s neck stand up, and he swiftly clamped a damp hand at the top of his spine and along the nape of his neck to clean away the sweat and dirt.

Arya shrugged and picked at her fingernails. “There have been three body slaves named Arya at Dragonstone over the last decade; I’m just the daughter of a body slave.”

“No you’re not.” Gendry grinned, and Arya punched him in the side. He pretended it hurt, rubbing the ‘sore’ mark she’d left and wincing. She laughed and jumped off the stool, cupping her hands in the water and washing her face. Gendry had only been training a month, but already he felt a new firmness in his muscles; and each hurt was a lesson, or so Arya had told him. For a young girl she was surprisingly knowledgeable in the art of gladiators. Gendry put it down to her brother being one of the best lanistas in the north.

“Gendry, what if you die?” Arya had a way of putting things plainly, with utter disregard for sparing feelings, if she could help it. Gendry couldn’t help but laugh, and asked her to help him wash his back. She took a cloth from the rails hanging over the trough and rinsed it before squeezing the water down his back. Cool fingers of water ran down his spine and left a welcome dampness at the top of his canvas cloth. “You could die… you do realise that, don’t you?”

“Yes Arya, I am well aware Dominus is putting my life at risk. But I cannot have the brand of Dragonstone if I don’t pass this test.” Gendry closed his eyes and pressed a hand against the clay wall in front of him, bracing himself against Arya’s heavy-handed scrubbing. “I won’t be able to fight in the games if I’m not branded soon.”

“Exactly!” Arya cried, dropping the cloth and placing her hands on her hips. Gendry turned and faced her, a smile playing across his lips. She was pretty for a little thing; even with her short cropped hair. It framed her cheekbones beautifully and her eyes looked brighter and wider “If you just got… injured, you could stay here with me and Axel, whose keeping the villa in Stannis’s absence.”

Gendry shook his head. “ _Dominus,_ Arya.” He stepped forward to muss her hair, but she suddenly stepped away. _Don’t do that! She hates it when you do that, fool!_ “I…” He dropped his hand and crouched to pick up the damp cloth, hanging it back on its peg “Arya; we’re not free anymore. We serve Dragonstone now, and we have to do as we’re asked. If I was still a blacksmith, then I’d stay here… with you… but I’m not.”

“You’re not a gladiator, you’re not good enough.” Gendry could tell she was trying to dampen his spirits, in hope he might fumble on his day of testing and lose the fight. She’d been trying all week—telling him how awful he was in training. But Arya wasn’t his Doctore; Davos was.

“Domina will be wondering where you are, little wolf.” That nickname always reminded him of the day they’d met—a somewhat sweeter memory. Arya looked so hurt for a moment he wanted to hold her, and tell her everything would be okay, but hurt quickly turned to anger and she drove her fist into his chest before he could catch her wrist, and then she walked away. _I’m sorry_ , he thought, watching her disappear behind the green drapes leading into the reception area of the villa. _I promise I’ll protect you, little wolf_.

*****

When his day of reckoning arrived, Gendry was loaded into a cart with his spear and shield, his right ankle shackled to an iron ring nailed to the wooden floor. _A true gladiator could easily rip free of these chains_ , he thought; but no amount of pulling seemed to shift it. Not that he particularly wanted to break free; he’d only be shot down by Stannis of the House of Dragonstone, who was loading himself into the front of the cart with two mounted soldiers riding either side of him. Through the slits in the wooden walls encasing him, Gendry could see his Domina standing on the decking, with Arya stood slightly behind her. _I didn’t tell her goodbye_. She was pulling at the leather collar around her neck; her eyes red and swollen. _Has she been crying? Have they beaten her or told her I’m going to die?_ But despite her eyes, her face was a picture of calmness; emotionless and placid.

“Does Domina take care of Arya, when they’re together?” Gendry turned to face Davos, sitting on the bench adjacent to him. The Doctore had some medical supplies with him; bandages and oils scented with lavender and milk of the poppy to ease pain.

Davos shrugged. “I don’t know.” He said, although he seemed to be hiding something. Davos was always hiding something; from his men, his Dominus and more importantly; from himself. He often looked tired and drained when morning came and training began, and this was oft when his temper was at its shortest.

The cart broke into a steady pace, and Gendry heard the sand beneath the wheels crunch and give way. Dragonstone was built on the beach; their training area made of the natural sands of the ocean mixed with heavy clay to give it firmness. High walls surrounded the arena though; so escape was almost impossible except through the steel gates that led up a road towards the villages. He could feel when the sand made way for stone, and the wheels were bumped and knocked by their solid mass. Gendry spied through the slits in the wood once more, but he could not see the red dress of Domina, nor her little slave. _I’m sorry, little wolf._

“Are you ready for this, lad?” Davos asked, after a while travelling in uneasy silence. Gendry could feel the knots tightening in his stomach, and suddenly the punches Arya had graced him with felt like they were raining down all over his cleansed skin. Stannis would not allow his gladiators to represent him in rags and muck; Gendry had been given clean linen shorts with leather ties, leather arm braces and a lightweight steel shoulder guard on his left shoulder where he’d taken an injury from Emmon during training.

“Yes, Doctore.” Gendry replied solemnly.

“Then you’re doomed to lose.”

Gendry looked up. “What?”

“How do you know if you’re ready, when not only have you never fought before, but you don’t know what to expect from your opponent. This isn’t the games; I haven’t seen this man battle half a hundred times and know his weaknesses. This is a town tourney; these men might be self-trained or they might be schooled. I find these tourneys more dangerous than the games, if I’m being honest.”

 _I wish you wouldn’t,_ Gendry thought, spitting into the rushes on the floor of the cart. Then he was jolted sideways as the cart came to a stop. Moments later, the wooden doors were pulled open, and Stannis and his guards stood before him.

“Let’s get this done then, shall we?” Stannis said, grinding his teeth as if worrying about what would happen to his gladiator. _Arya says he always grinds his teeth; it means nothing_.

The streets of the market square were crowded with men, women and children alike. Some threw themselves at him; children clawed at his ankles and women draped their naked bodies over his chest, begging him to take them. Davos shoved them off as best he could, but the crowd was uncontrollable. He and his were forced into the centre of a small arena; a circle of gravel surrounded by wooden railings that attempted to keep the onlookers at bay. In the ring already was his opponent, Ryman; the son of some stonemason in the town. He was built like an aurochs; biceps so muscular Gendry wondered if he’d ever been able to cross his arms. His legs were thick like tree trunks, dwarfing the size of his canopy cloth. When his father announced him, his voice boomed like thunder and the crowd screamed in his favour.

“Listen to me Gendry, and listen well; you already have an advantage, you’re a smaller target. Get the measure of which hand he favours with that sword of his, and stay light on your feet. Don’t be afraid to hit the ground and roll away from him. Bring him to you—don’t go running in there blind, do you understand?” Davos clapped Gendry on his cheeks, looking straight into his eyes as if willing him to take everything they had practised on board. _Aim for the eyes, drop the spear and drive it through his chest._ Ryman wore no armour except his helm, so his broad chest was a painted target. Gendry took his spear from Davos and held out his arm for the Doctore to slip the straps over his forearm. Then Davos ducked under the railings and stood obediently beside Dominus, who said nothing except to introduce his gladiator.

And then the fight began, and Ryman lunged at Gendry, knocking the spear from his hand before the black haired lad could flinch, and drove his elbow into Gendry’s stomach. He fell to one knee, fighting the burning pain that threatened to suffocate him before he’d even taken his first swing at the gargantuan man.

“Fuck…” Gendry breathed, pushing himself to his feet with the bottom of his shield, only to be knocked senseless onto his side by Ryman’s forceful shove with his left foot. The man turned and addressed the crowd; roaring like a giant. One woman threw herself into the arena, her breasts spilling out of her flimsy dress and she climbed Ryman like a tree; wrapping her legs around his thick waist. The woman’s husband yanked her back and smacked her across the face. She spat out a tooth as various town’s people dragged her away. Secretly, Gendry thanked her, for he could take a moment to catch his breath. He stumbled to his feet and picked his spear up from the ground, seizing an opportunity. Ryman had his back to him, and so Gendry thrust his spear forward at the man’s shoulder. But Ryman had been in the arena before, whereas Gendry had not, and he shifted his weight, catching the spear under his arm and clamping it there. When he turned, slightly, he smacked Gendry across the face with the hilt of his sword. Blood splattered from his mouth, and for a moment Gendry felt as though he’d lost all his teeth.

“Get up, Gendry—remember what I told you!” Doctore crouched under the railings and ruffled Gendry’s hair, trying to stir him. In a haze of dull pain, Gendry got back to his feet. _Come at me, fat bastard._ He waited this time, poised with his spear ready to lunge. Ryman reared and kicked out, but Gendry dodged him. The crowd booed and spat whenever Gendry was close, but their hateful words could do very little damage in comparison to Ryman’s sword. And speaking of which, it didn’t take long for the blade to skin half of Gendry’s right arm, as he stumbled and found himself instinctively defending his face. At firs the new skin was pink and fresh, and then came the pain; sharp and stinging as the blood ran down his fingers and dripped liked raindrops into the gravel. When Gendry moved again, Ryman caught him on his cheek, nicking him with a deep gash that ran from lip to eye. _Men fear when they cannot see._ Gendry ducked and thrust upwards, narrowly missing Ryman’s eyes.

“You little weasel!” Ryman bellowed, slamming his fist into Gendry’s side. But Gendry didn’t flinch; as though the bruise Arya had attempted to leave had left a sort of protection in that area of his ribs, deflecting any damage from his opponent. Instead he hit the ground and rolled, slamming his shield against Ryman’s shins. The giant tumbled to the ground and split his chin on the sharp stones beneath him. _The arena has done more damage than I have_.

“Finish him, Gendry!” Someone cried, and Gendry did his best to do as he was asked. He thrust his spear into the back of Ryman’s thigh, feeling the muscle spring back like it was being released, and the giant cried. Ryman cried again as Gendry took the spear back from his leg and readied again.

And then Ryman turned, and his sword thrust forward. And everything went black.


	8. Sansa: Memories of home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has a visitor in the red villa, and fresh hope of finally being freed.

They had dressed her in a sheer linen robe as blue as her eyes, and Cersei allowed Jeyne to brush her auburn hair until it shone prettily. Sansa sat in her servant’s cells, watching Jeyne in her faded mirror nailed to the stone walls. Even during the day the cells were dim, and for a while neither girls spoke, making it somehow darker. Jeyne knew Sansa was no longer oblivious to what had been happening when she was sent to the gladiators’ cells, but neither had talked about it. Sansa could sometimes hear the poor girl sobbing when she returned, and the bruises around her wrists had not gone unnoticed. But what worried Sansa more was how Jeyne was starting to cry less, and stood at the iron railings of her cell awaiting one of the guards to bring her. She moved about the villa with a sort of numbness; her eyes glassy and cold.

“My hair looks lovely, gratitude Jeyne.” Sansa turned on her wooden stool and smiled at Jeyne, who picked the auburn strands of hair from the brush absentmindedly.

“I am sure your father will appreciate it.” Jeyne tapped lightly on the iron bars of Sansa’s cell and awaited the guard to allow her out. Usually the cells were open for the slaves to come and go with a guard outside the door to keep them inside, but during the day they were locked unless permission from the Dominus specified otherwise. The guard walked towards the door with a ring of several keys spinning around his finger.

Sansa stood and placed a gentle hand on Jeyne’s arm, startling her suddenly. They regarded one another a moment, before Sansa felt the tension Jeyne wrapped herself in subside a little. “Jeyne—…” Sansa started, but Jeyne smiled a little and placed her hand over hers.

“…Have a lovely day, Sansa.” She said softly, indicating that she did not want to talk about Janos or the other gladiators. _I’m losing her._ Sansa felt so alone in the red villa most of the time, Jeyne had become a sort of sister to her; someone who filled a cold, empty void in her life. In truth—despite her polite, sweet demeanour, Sansa was unbelievably, painfully lonely. She stepped back and allowed the guard to guide Jeyne from her cell, pressing his hand against the small of her back. Jeyne didn’t seem fazed, but Sansa bit her lip to stop from saying anything. _Please don’t leave me Jeyne._

Sansa was brought through to the dining area of the Baratheon family; a beautifully ornate room with gold drapes hanging over the walls from gold rails, stag’s horns hanging over a mantel of a beautiful fireplace with intricate designs of Robert’s ancestry. Sansa could remember some of their names from memories of her childhood; but like their wooden faces, many had faded over time. The table itself was clear-cut glass with a steel frame polished to perfection. The centrepiece was a rearing crowned stag; the brand of the House of Baratheon sculpted out of maple, the crown painted a burnished copper colour. The window overlooked the swarming city below the hill on which the red villa was situated; close enough to be just a short carriage ride away, but far enough that the sounds of the market were dulled and incoherent. Sansa’s father sat at the head of the table dressed in a bruised purple robe with a lighter shade thread decorating the trim. He had a mockingbird pin fastening the one-shoulder cloak of deep crimson neatly to polish off his ensemble. _He looks magnificent,_ Sansa thought; _like a real man of note._ She could only pray that was why he had come.

“Father!” Sansa smiled prettily and bowed her head, offering her most courteous of greetings, while her father rolled up the parchment in his hand and stood to receive her.

“My sweet child,” He said; his voice rich and deep. He pulled her into a fierce embrace and planted a lingering kiss on her right cheek, before examining her at arm’s length. “How you have blossomed into womanhood, my sweet daughter. Have you bled yet?” Sansa blushed and took the seat he offered her, while he resumed his position at head of the table. One of the lesser house slaves served them sweet wine and olives on a silver tray.

“No, father.” She answered, sipping tentatively at her cup of wine. The taste filled her senses; showering her in summer bliss. Never had anything tasted so wonderful. She crossed one leg over the other and smoothed down her fine blue robe, suddenly acutely aware of how sheer it was in the light of the villa. Daylight streamed in from the windows, and still candles burned on iron stands in each corner of the room.

Her father tilted his head and scrunched his nose distastefully. “A shame, child.” He said, as softly as a whisper. Then he sat upright again and grinned cunningly. “Never mind that, Sansa; how have you been treated since I last visited?”

 _When you last visited, you promised to take me away,_ Sansa wanted to remind him, but instead she shrugged. “Quite well, Father. I have become Cersei’s body slave.” She noticed how her father’s eyes changed slightly at the mention of the title, and he ran his thumb and forefinger along the side of his moustache and down across his chin.

The he smiled. “I am very proud of you, Sansa. You have thrived in this House.”

“But I don’t want to thrive here, Father—I want to go home with you now. Jeyne says—…”

Her father bristled. “…What does Jeyne say, hmm?”

Sansa couldn’t keep her eyes off the ground, terrified he would suddenly become enraged as he had once when she was small. _I must never speak of my mother._ It reminded her of the other thing she must never talk of, upon Sandor’s orders— _I must never speak of the things that happen to Jeyne._ “Jeyne… she… she says you have a l-lovely villa in the Vale.” When she looked up, her father had adopted a look of utter sorrow.

He took her hands in his, caressing her knuckles with his thumbs. “Oh my sweet Sansa, I wanted to tell you, I swear to you I did.”

“Oh father! Have you come to take me home at last?” Sansa beamed with fresh hope; leaning close and squeezing her father’s hands tight. Before he could reply, Robert stormed through the gold curtain.

“Littlefinger; there’s a man with less spine than a cockroach!” He clapped her father on the shoulder and Littlefinger visibly winced. “What brings you to my vi—… ah yes! Your daughter is my wife’s slave. You look nice, Alayne.”

Littlefinger stood and cleared his throat, smoothing down his purple robe. “Her name is Sansa, Dominus.”

Robert looked surprised. “Is it? Of course, of course it bloody is! Run along and fetch us some ale will you Sansa? From the stores.” Sansa looked at her father for reassurance; _I’m not here to work any longer, father. Tell him!_ Petyr said nothing. “Well? What are you gawping at child; go and fetch the ale.”

“Y-yes, Dominus.” Sansa bowed her head and blinked back her tears, slipping passed Robert and wandering down towards the cellar. When she returned a few moments later, her father was gone.

Robert sat in her father’s grave, reading through a piece of parchment with a pained expression, as though reading was not something the man was particularly good at. “Why is it that your father is always the bearer of bad news, hmm?” He signalled her inside the dining area with a flick of his hand, and Sansa carefully poured her Dominus a cup of ale.

“If I may—…”

“…If you must.”

Sansa cleared her throat, shifting from one foot to the other and keeping her eyes low. “My father, where is he?”

Robert looked up. “He’s gone, child. He only came to bring me this fucking letter. I knew I shouldn’t have let him go there, I knew it was bad news. Seven hells!”

“Who?” Sansa was confused; the Dominus seemed to flit from the room conversation, to the one in his head. He shot her a warning glance, reminding her not to speak unless spoken to. _I should be out of here by now._

“Never mind; go back to the cells until you’re called. Go on, before I lose my patience.” Sansa bowed her head and turned on her heels to leave. “Oh, and Sansa? Your father told me to tell you goodbye, and maybe next time—if that means anything to you.”

After a moment, Sansa tried to smile, failing miserably. “It does, Dominus, gratitude.” She left the Dominus with his slave and headed back to the cells.

No sooner had her sandals touched the sand of the training arena did the tears spring from her eyes and run unbidden down her cheeks. _He left me again! And for how long this time?_ For years her father had promised to free her from chains and bring her home, and for years he had let her down. She never gave up hope, but the aftermath of being let down was crushing. Tin buckets of water were laid out for the gladiators to wash away sweat as they trained; Sansa took the cleanest looking cloth from a peg and wiped her face. 


	9. Jon: The taste of freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is on the run after fleeing Winterfell, and finds himself at the wall where the women of the night's watch guard the passage to freedom.

_Is this the taste of freedom I’ve longed for? Is this the end of the world?_ 700 feet high, it loomed over the rolling wagons like a ferocious beast. It seemed to move as the light danced across it, flashing blue and green and flushes of soft pink. It was beautiful, and it was the end of the world.

“The wall.” Grenn announced, gawping up at the gargantuan structure in awe.

“You don’t say.” Edd muttered, sitting on the end of the wooden bench peeling red potatoes with a knife. He glanced up for a moment, before returning to his potatoes in silence. Jon took a minute to absorb the sight before him; wondering what lay beyond.

“It’s guarded by the women of the night’s watch, I read about that somewhere. When a girl of Bear Island is of age, she has the choice to marry or join the night’s watch. Most choose to take the black.” Samwell Tarly was chubby and craven, but unmistakably smart. Jon had found that although he could not fight, he knew much and more about tactics.

“Don’t forget the Karstarks; their daughter Alys serves here too.” Jon reminded him.

Sam shook his head. “No, Alys is at the Nightfort. Dacey Mormont is the Woman of the Wall here.” Castle Black appeared on the horizon; bleak and unwelcoming. “Her sister Alysane trains the new recruits; something their mother used to do. Now she’s retired back at Bear Island—…”

“…breeding more sour-faced old crones.” Edd added, and Grenn smirked. Jon doubted he knew what a crone was, but didn’t bother to ask. The carts rolled on, and for the first time snow began to fall. Jon rolled up the sleeve of his injured arm and allowed the snowflakes to gently melt on the raw skin; kissing it better like a mother might. A few carts ahead, he heard the soft singing of one of the men, accompanied by the gentle caressing of a flute. It was melancholy and ghostly, but Jon enjoyed it nonetheless. After a while, he began to drift to sleep, his eyelids heavy from exhaustion.

*****

“Get up! Get up and get out you lazy shits!” The men piled off the carts and huddled around blazing fires dotted around the yard; stealing wistful glances at the women who stalked among them. Clad is heavy armour and thick fur, many could pass for men; especially Alysane, who thumped a boy in the chest with her scabbard as she turned to address someone suddenly. The boy keeled over into the snow, and she stepped on him as she made her way to the armoury. Jon couldn’t help but laugh and Edd debated how many ribs she might have just broken with her club feet.

Night was beginning to fall by the time they made camp beside one of the little fires, sitting on the cold hard ground in their thin cotton breeches and stolen furs. Jon and Grenn ate their leek and potato soup in silence, while Sam sat and read a book and Edd complained about how much Grenn was beginning to stink.

“How am I supposed to bathe on the road? You’ve not washed neither, Edd.”

“I’m not the one who smells like the backside of an aurochs.”

“I don’t smell nothing like the arse of an aurochs!”

Edd sniffed. “How do you know, you ever been near one?”

“Yeah, I have actually.”

“Well you should have washed after, because you stink.” Edd huddled down in his cloak and turned away from the fire, resting his head on his arm and closing his eyes. A few minutes later, Sam closed his book and did the same. Grenn muttered something about smelling like an aurochs, and Jon watched the guards pace along the camps, watching for suspicious behaviour. When at last all the boys had drifted off, Jon took the chance to wander off for a walk.

Two of the towers of castle black were in ruins, and the rest were in desperate need of repair. Jon made his way around a fallen turret and perched on a few broken bricks, watching the fires blaze around him. They were like fireflies dancing in the wind. The sky was a deep blue, sinking into blackness as the night drew in across the wall. The pinkness has disappeared, and now the wall was bruised black and blue. Come morning the two passageways to the world beyond would be opened, and for a small fee, men, women and children would pass to the other side, _to freedom_. Jon had heard stories about the free folk and how they lived, but he had never imagined he’d seek to join them. There had been a time when all he ever wanted was to be a gladiator and earn his right to one of them; one of his trueborn siblings. Arya already treated him as such, but she was different. Arya didn’t believe in slavery, or status. She wanted what the rest of Westeros did not; equality.

“Are you lost?” Jon turned suddenly, caught completely by surprise by the voice behind him. She had climbed a few broken bricks to be almost of height with where he sat. Her black hair twisted and danced in the wind, her green surcoat tugged where it did not fit her properly, and her black cloak flapped like wings.

“No, Commander.” Jon replied, realising who she was when she lifted her torch and illuminated her face. Long features and dark brown eyes with thin pink lips that twisted into a smile.

“You don’t remember me, do you Jon?” Dacey asked, placing a hand on her hip. He noticed the bastard blade slung over her shoulder; Longclaw. “I visited your father’s school once.” She laughed then, a sweet laugh for such a powerful woman “I begged and begged him to take me on as a gladiator, you know. I swore I’d make him proud and wear his brand with honour.” Jon felt the pain along his arm burn with fresh intensity. He rubbed along the tender tissue through his sleeve and screwed his face, bracing himself for the pain. But the cold had numbed him to the bone.

“I remember your visits, aye.” Jon answered truthfully.

“Aye.” She said softly, and sat awkwardly beside him on the bricks. “And now I find you’ve come to visit me.”

“Not a visit, I’m heading beyond the wall. There’s nothing left for me here.”

Dacey laughed and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “No, only blood and glory.”

“I don’t want that,” Jon insisted “I want freedom.”

“Freedom.” Dacey whispered, but the word took on a new meaning when she spoke it, as if she didn’t believe the notion of such a thing were possible. “All these men and women come to my wall with their dreams of freedom, and do you know what, Jon? Half and more come crawling back the way they came. Well, most use the other passage to the one they left through I’ve found; seems they feel less stupid if the same guards don’t receive them.” she smiled “I rotate the girls on duty every fortnight, of course.”

Jon laughed and watched two children sleeping under a mountain of furs; little girls clinging to one another for warmth. Their father leaned against a log with his arms crossed over his chest, keeping watch over them. He wondered what sort of life they were hoping to escape.

“The free folk don’t have slaves or masters or bran—…”

“…Oh no, they have brands, Jon.” Dacey said sternly “And you’ll be branded a turncloak, for fleeing what you were born into. The free folk believe each man and woman has a duty to fulfil, and if you waver from that obligation, you’re a turncloak.” Jon tried to imagine the sort of reception the first village would give him. They must be used to ‘turncloaks’ appearing on their doorstep, begging for refuge. What would he and his companions do if they were refused? Where would he go then? Home was not an option; Jon has seen to that himself. Robb was his brother and his friend, but he was also of the north, and Jon would be killed for running away.

_I’ll be beheaded by my family, or gutted by free folk. And all for being a turncloak._

_Is there any such thing as freedom?_


	10. Jaime: The beautiful and the broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime learns a tough lesson in the school of the House of Baratheon, and finds he is not the only one struggling to cope.

Barristan didn’t look as though he enjoyed it, and Sansa sure as hell was not revelling in the sight, but still the whip came whistling through the air and painted red lines across Jaime’s chest. The first one tickled, the second stung, and after that he could only groan in agony whenever Barristan hit him more gently than the rest. Sansa stood beside the Doctore with a bucket and cloth in her hand, wincing and jumping even more than Jaime did. The guards had tied his wrists above his head, fastened to the wooden beam that held the canopy up extending from the villa. Jaime knew that spitting in the face of the Dominus was not his finest hour, _but why should I bend the fucking knee to a fat bastard like him?_ The whip came again and again, until Barristan had to pause and regain his strength.

“That’s enough, Doctore.” Robert commanded, and Barristan dropped his whip all too willingly. Robert then signalled to the guards to release Jaime from his ties, and they did so before coercing him back into the gladiators’ cells. Once inside, they threw him to the ground, and slammed the door behind Sansa as she entered. Jaime rolled over to sit up, leaning against the foot of his cot. Blood ran fine red lines down his abs; droplets joining together along the crevices where the muscles parted. Sweat ran down his back and clung to his yellow hair, making it appear a dirty brown.

“Let me help you.” Sansa carefully eased Jaime to his feet, mindful not to have him stretch to a full standing position and open the slits in his skin even further. She helped him back onto his cot and propped his head up by folding the thin feather pillow in half “This will sting a bit.” Sansa perched on the side of the bed and dropped the bucket by her feet, rinsing the cloth in the vinegar water. The sting made him feel as though the whip was pummelling him again, opening him from peck to peck, or belly to sternum—but Jaime did not flinch. Instead, he closed his eyes and cursed the gods for their hand in his situation. _You can’t blame everything on fate, Jaime. This is your doing, too._

With a face as demure and gentle as her fingers, Sansa began dressing the wounds. She carefully soaked the bandages in warm water from a basin, and laid them lightly over the gashes until they turned red. Then she added another, and another, until the blood ceased to dye the cotton. Then she swiftly looped it round Jaime’s shoulder and fastened it across his belly where the whip had done the least amount of damage.

“I owe you a debt of gratitude, Sansa.” Jaime mumbled, dizzy with pain.

Sansa did not look up from her work. “What can you give me that I cannot get myself? You’re in no better position than I am.”

“So you want something you can’t have?” Jaime teased, coughing when he dared to chuckle a little.

Sansa did look up then, her face almost a frown, craning her neck as though she could not hear him. “If I wanted something I _could_ have, I’d have it.” _Point well made._ Sansa stood from the bed and lifted the basin from the desk where she had placed it, emptying the water down the black iron drain in the front right corner of the tiny box cell.

Jaime attempted to sit up, but reeled back in pain. “Fuck!”

“You must not move until tomorrow, Jaime. You need rest and time to heal. Dominus will send someone to tend you before he breaks his fast, if you’re lucky.”

Jaime smiled. “What was it you wanted, girl?”

“I beg your pardon?” Sansa looked confused, and as if at any moment she might turn on him and rake her nails down his chest. In a past life, the idea of such a thing might arouse him. In the House of Baratheon, it turned his very stomach and made him think twice about how he answered her.

“Was there anything else you wanted, that I might be able to get you?”

Sansa looked as though she might have a hundred ideas, but instead she shook her head and tapped twice on the cell door. Moments later, a Baratheon guard appeared and let her out. He called after her a strained goodbye, but his words were lost in an empty corridor.

*****

“…And then I turned her over and I fucked her bloody.” Meryn ripped into his chicken leg, spitting fat from his lips as he told his tales of poor Jeyne. Jaime knew the girl at face value, but had never invited her to his cell for an evening of bloody fucking. By the sounds of things, there wasn’t much left of the poor slave. Meryn had a habit of sensationalising his stories, mainly because elsewise they were fucking boring. Jaime was still in unbearable amounts of pain, but milk of the poppy made him too drowsy to train effectively, and twice Ilyn had knocked him unconscious that week.

After they ate, the men returned to training. Jaime was up against Janos, another of Jeyne’s bloody fuckers, who told Jaime he’d threatened her life if she got with child.

“I told her ‘if that’s my whelp, may the Seven protect you, wench. I’ll rip the fucking thing from your—…”

That was enough of that for Jaime, so he smacked the fool across the mouth with his wooden shield. Janos hit the deck like a sack of shit, and Jaime couldn’t help but laugh.

“Get up, you fat prick!” Jaime yelled, gaining the attention of a few of the other gladiators. He caught Sandor’s eye, who looked away abruptly and snorted disapprovingly. _I don’t want to look at your ugly scars anyway, dog._ Then Jaime heard a steady clapping from behind him, and pivoted on his foot to see Joffrey Baratheon approaching him with Sansa at his heels. Her head was hung low, and her hands were clasped neatly behind her back.

“Very good, slave.” The boy said fleetingly, waving a languid hand in Jaime’s direction. Jaime inclined his head in thanks. “I’d see you fight soon, in the Riverlands; against the Greyjoy roster. It’s only a friendly gathering, but I don’t _do_ friendly.” _I gathered_.

“Gratitude, Dominus.” Jaime spat, each submissive word making his skin crawl. Joffrey smiled cunningly and snapped his fingers, signalling Sansa to his side.

“See that this one has a reward tonight, do you understand?” Joffrey looked from Sansa to Jaime and grinned. Sansa’s jaw dropped a little and she began stuttering, before Joffrey dealt her a swift blow across the cheek. She whimpered and nodded obediently. “You will do as you are commanded, do you hear me?!” Joffrey seized the girl by her hair, and Jaime felt his fists curling. But it was Sandor that stepped forward to prize the little prick off his helpless slave. He slammed his meaty hand onto the boy’s shoulder-

“That is enough.” Her words were soft yet meaningful, and the Domina stepped out from the green curtains and walked casually towards her son. Her daughter, whose name Jaime could never recall walked beside her mother, and when she saw Sansa quivering in Joffrey’s grasp, she rant to comfort the pretty little slave.

Sandor stepped back and bowed his head. “Mother; that _slave_ put his hand on—…”

“…He wasn’t the only one putting his hands on things he shouldn’t.” Cersei turned to Sansa, who was busy wiping the tears from her eyes and regaining some, if any composure she could. “Myrcella send Sansa inside and clean her up, then send her to the cellars for more wine.”

“Yes mother,” Myrcella replied “come with me, Sansa; I’ll brush that tangle from your hair.”

Cersei watched them leave, the silence feeling as though it was dragging on forever until she eventually turned around to face her son, who stood red-faced and fuming. “He touched me!”

“And yet you live, you should count yourself lucky, my handsome young boy. Go and find your brother, if you will.” Reluctantly, Joffrey stormed back towards the villa with his tail between his legs. _A lions tail, not a stags._

“Domina I did not hurt the boy.” Sandor said, as though he could read his mistress’s mind. Cersei raised her hand to silence his appeal and shook her head.

“Return to training, Sandor.” She said, and he did as he was bid. _She’s nothing like the men described; she’s far too forgiving._ Cersei finally turned to position herself before Jaime, and she seemed to be soaking him in, all of him, until she eventually smiled. “How have your wounds healed?” She asked, her voice overflowing with every ounce of sincerity.

Jaime shrugged. “Very well, Domina.”

Cersei smiled. “Good. I would have words with you; this evening you will be sent to me, so do not fall asleep and risk being stirred from fond dreams.”

*****

It was the first time Jaime had ever seen the inside of the red villa; the walls were white clay and stone; draped in gold and red satin oft with the brand of Baratheon, though some drapes had the lion of Lannister roaring across the breadth in bright yellow stitching. The floor was tiled white and cream with gold rugs, the rooms were furnished with fine oak and glass furniture; red throws adorned the futons with black feather cushions.

“This way, slave.” Lancel; one of Robert’s slaves drew back the curtains of the reception area and led him up the spiralling staircase to Cersei’s quarters. Her room was sectioned off by a heavy wooden door with black scrollwork running up and down the grain. Lancel tapped the door with his knuckles a few times, and turned to face Jaime. “Few are granted an audience with Domina, slave.” The boy said, as though he himself did not carry the same title.

Jaime smiled. “Lucky me.” After a moment, a Baratheon guard prized open the door and let Jaime and Lancel passed. The room was heavily scented with lavender candles and incense sitting on a wooden chest of drawers. The canopy bed was huge; the enormous throw pillows in velvet crimson red, and a gold and red blanket pulled back to reveal crisp white sheets. Opposite the end of the bed was a window that overlooked the city and the rolling hills beyond. At night, the towns were lit with lanterns and fire torches; flickering like twinkling like stars in the distance. On the other side of the bed a white drape, and behind Jaime could see the figure of his Domina. It didn’t take a nobleman to establish her obvious nakedness—pert breasts and curvy hips framed in the shadow of the light behind her. A shadow of a slave appeared, and slipped a robe over Domina’s shoulders. She pulled her hair free and let it cascade over her chest before taking a cup of wine and stepping out from behind the curtain. The anticipation of the great reveal was worth it, for Cersei was as regal as an empress stepping into the room. Lancel bowed his head obediently, but Jaime could not take his eyes from her. Lips slightly parted, eyes soft and gentle, hair falling in golden waves. His fingers twitched at the mere thought of running his hands through them, so much so he had to clear his throat before addressing her. The lump remained, making his voice coarse and uneven.

“Domina.” The word lingered between them for a moment, before Cersei pursed her lips and smiled.

“Jaime.” She sipped her wine and handed it back to her slave, a young girl Jaime assumed was Jeyne. Her wrists her black with bruises and her skin was mottled with red bite marks along her neck and collar bone. Jaime pitied her; Meryn was a cruel man. “Leave us, all of you.” Without a moment of protest Jeyne, Lancel and the Baratheon guard left the room. Once alone, Jaime allowed himself to soak her in in her entirety as Cersei tightened the tie around her waist. The robe shifted a little as she did so, and revealed the pink skin covering her clavicle. Jaime licked his lips.

Cersei looked up suddenly, and as though she had caught him undressing her with his eyes, she smiled. “Might I offer you a drink? My husband has only the best wine, as you are aware, I’m sure.” The jape did not seem to reflect in the sadness of her eyes at the mention of the monster she’d laid with. But Jaime had not failed to notice the slave girl disappearing into the red villa hours before him, and that the Dominus had a chamber of his own at the other end of the villa. _Closest to the kitchens—naturally._

“Gratitude Domina, but I am fine.”

“Huh, very well then. More for me.” She took the clay jug from the desk beside her vanity table and poured herself another cup of wine. “My son thinks you have potential to be our future champion.”

Jaime stood near the door, unsure whether to relax from his regimented stance. He clasped his hands behind his back and picked at the skin along his fingernails. “Gratitude, Domina.”

Cersei laughed. “ _I_ did not say you had potential.” She tucked a long lock of golden hair behind her ear. “But perhaps my son is right?”

“Gratitude, Domina. He has more brains than his father.” Instantly Jaime regretted slighting the Dominus; he was in the presence of his wife after all. But Cersei only smirked and turned away to run her fingers over the gold stitching of her blanket. Jaime released his hands, and they hung useless beside down his sides.

Then she turned and moved towards him, her face unreadable and her eyes dark and oozing lust. “Tell me, slave; do you think me beautiful?”

Jaime took a step back towards the door, but Domina entreated closer. “Domina I—…” He stumbled and fell against the door, the doorknob pressing at the small of his back.

“Am I worthy of love? Am I loveable?” She asked, and her eyes grew colder this time.

Jaime swallowed. “You are loved, Domina.”

“No, I am not.” She said, and her hand fell across his face in a flash of anger. 


	11. Arya: Alone again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya learns the heartbreaking truth about a friend, and is given time to say goodbye.

Being sent to the kitchens where Selyse was working that day could only mean one thing; Arya was in trouble. It had been days since she’d been shouted at, and with Gendry’s imminent arrival back from his test due any moment, Arya had been especially careful to not upset her Domina. _She’ll never let me welcome him back and give me a moment to ask how he was if I am rude_. She found the kitchens at the back end of the villa and slipped in through the wooden door that was slightly ajar.

As quiet as a shadow, as quick as a snake; Arya crouched beneath the counter where the cooks prepared a broth, and swiped a cake from under their noses.

“Arya,” _She caught me!_ Arya jumped up suddenly and turned to face Selyse, who stood with her hands on her hips and a wooden spoon in her right hand. “Arya… have one of these instead, those ones are stale.” She offered her a little cake off a tray beside the oven. _Why is she feeding me?_

Arya took the cake suspiciously, but the smell of the fresh-baked treat was too much to resist and she finished the whole thing in seconds. “Why have you called me? I swear it wasn’t me that smashed that flowerpot it was one of the guards it was; he hit it with his scabbard as he walked passed.”

Selyse looked as though smiling was too painful. Her lips twisted, but fell again. “No sweetling, it’s nothing to do with that.” Then one of the fat cooks placed a hand on Arya’s shoulder. She swung round and pulled free, to find the old woman was offering her a bowl of soup.

“Here, sit on this stool and fill yourself up with something warm, child.” Arya did as the cook bid her, and accepted a chunk of black bread to soak up the remainder of the soup in her little wooden bowl. All the time she ate the cooks watched her, with a look of almost sadness in their eyes. _Why are they acting so strange?_ Selyse took the stool beside her, sitting the opposite way and leaning her back against the counter. Arya found it distracting having to eat and not stare at her moustache, but food was food and eyes could be closed.

“Arya, there’s something you should know, sweetling.” Selyse looked withdrawn and sombre so Arya put down her spoon and pushed her bowl aside to listen.

“What?”

Selyse’s eyes welled up with tears. “I’m so sorry little one, I’m so, so sorry.”

*****

 _No. No gods no please no, please be wrong, please be wrong I beg you to be wrong please someone anyone tell me this is wrong._ They were not wrong. Arya never cried, but she could hardly prevent the tears that ran unbidden down her cheeks. Gendry was dead.

“He fought valiantly, little one.” Davos the Dragonstone Doctore placed a tender hand on Arya’s arm, rubbing his thumb along her grubby skin affectionately. But no words, no gentle touches could bring him back. Gendry was dead. _How could he have fought valiantly, and still died?_ They brought her weeping into the gladiator cells, empty as the men were expected to train despite such circumstances, and opened Gendry’s cell door. They had laid him in his cot, his hands resting across his stomach and the wound that killed him bandaged.

Upon her Domina’s request, Arya was left alone, the door to his cell closed firmly behind her. For a minute she remained close to the door, unwilling to get any closer. Candles and incense danced away on the desk, masking any potential smell the body might have been emitting. Confident she could not detect the stench of death in the air; Arya moved across the room and perched daintily on the side on Gendry’s cot.

“I told you this would happen,” She told him quietly, ignoring the constant flow of tears running down her face “I said you might die, why didn’t you listen to me? Look at you now; you’ve left me. I’m on my own now.” Arya hugged herself, staring across the room at the door. When she was done, Gendry would stay here, and she’d have to go and run Melisandre her evening bath. “You’ve left me now.” She sounded like a child, more so than normal. For a little while, all she did was cry, and then she found the confidence to take Gendry’s hand and look at him again. His skin was cold and had lost its softness; it felt stiff and inhuman. “I was going to run up to you and congratulate you, I was.” Gendry’s eyes looked sunken in, as though there were no eyeballs in his sockets. His lips were bruised blue, and bruises blossomed on his grey skin. “I was going to shove passed Melisandre, and Selyse and all of them, I was; I was going to hug you and tell you… and tell you I missed you while you were gone.” She laughed a little, sadness welling up once more in her throat. “Now you know I’ll always be missing you.” The smile dropped instantly from her lips, and she sobbed, clenching his hand so tight she thought it might crack and turn to dust. _I didn’t even cry this much for father._ “You’ll love my father, Gendry he’s—he was a lovely man. When you see him, tell him I miss him too, and he’ll tell you how scared I’ve been all this time and how you gave me so much strength.” Arya turned a little and leaned close to Gendry’s pale face, running her fingers carefully through the stands of hair that fell over his forehead. “He might tell you about that time I watched you bathing in those springs, but that’s a lie so ignore him.”

 For the longest time, all Arya did was talk to Gendry—telling him things she was too afraid to admit when he lived. She reminded him of all the things they did together on the run, and how terrified she was when the slavers caught her; not because she thought they might kill her, but because she was worried she might be sold to a different house than he would.

When their farewell was done, Arya stood and placed Gendry’s hand back across his stomach, and stood over him a moment; soaking in one final look. _If only I could see his eyes._


	12. Melisandre: Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis hosts Gendry's funeral, and Melisandre looks to R'hllor to save a man from a death he has not earned.

Melisandre had requested that Selyse serve them their supper that night, conscious that Arya might not be in any state to work. She had allowed the little girl to retire to her cell early, in hope that sleep might ease some of the sting of losing her friend. _It was for the best_.

Stannis sat at the end of the heavy oak table, one he had commissioned into the map of Westeros; land marking all the arenas in the kingdoms, and their lanistas. She sat a couple of spaces to his right, sipping a goblet of Dornish red.

“We’ll burn the lad tonight, I think. While his little friend sleeps; she won’t want to see that.” Stannis said.

Melisandre looked up from her lamprey pie. “But love, they were so close! No, I think it wise we wait until tomorrow when she can attend—…”

“…I’m not having him rotting down in the cells for days on end for the sake of one slave girl, no. This god of yours; I thought he liked burning people?”

“I have made sacrifices in this way, yes.”

“Well then, there it is. We wouldn’t want to irk anymore gods up there now, would we? No, it’s settled. Axel; fetch the Doctore immediately, please.” Axel bowed his head and darted from the room, Stannis turned back to Melisandre. “I’m doing your slave a kindness; watching someone burn is not an easy thing.” _I know that,_ Melisandre thought bitterly; _I don’t enjoy doing it for R’hllor—but it must be done and I do it for you._ Melisandre ran her fingers over the ruby that hung around her neck. It was warm and comforting, and a constant reminder of her inner strength.

Minutes later, Davos appeared with Axel at his side. “Dominus.”

“Davos, have a few of your men prepare a funeral pyre; we’ll burn the boy tonight.” Stannis said plainly. Davos shot Melisandre a look, the whites of his eyes brighter.

“Dominus, if I may; the boy is only a few hours dead; we usually allow for two days before a gladiator is burned.”

“Did he have the brand, did he?”

“Well, no but—…”

“…Then he wasn’t a gladiator of Dragonstone and therefore he will be burned tonight.” The tone in Stannis’s voice was clear; he was in no mood to be swayed from his decision. Melisandre finished her meal as Stannis dismissed the Doctore with his orders.

Inside their chambers, Stannis paced about the room while his slave found his cloak to wear for the burning. “Of course, I’ll have to find another slave to replace him; someone who might not die in the first fight he has.”

Melisandre perched on the end of the bed. “A man like that is expensive.” She said, smiling. Stannis did not return the favour. His slaves found a cloak and fastened it to the shoulders of his robes with stag horn pins. _His brother’s brand, not ours._ Melisandre dismissed the slaves with a wave of her hand, and walked to stand before her husband, running and hand through his short black hair.

“You are tired, my love.” She said, bringing her lips close to his. For a moment his twitched, as though kissing her was all he wanted. _Succumb to your weakness, my dear husband_. “You have worked tirelessly to make our school fine, and death is how the gods repay you.”

“ _Your_ god, woman.” Stannis frowned, but Melisandre felt the tips of his fingers pressing into her hips. _He wants me_.

Melisandre smiled and ran her thumb over Stannis’s cheek. “R’hllor did not do this thing; the Seven still seek to punish you.” She kissed him then, and felt his breath stop short in surprise. He awkwardly wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close, crushing his mouth against hers. Melisandre allowed for a small whisper of a moan to fall against his lips, and as though suddenly fuelled with lust, Stannis forced her back towards the bed. Melisandre hitched up the skirts of her red dress and tucked an ankle around Stannis’s leg, bringing him crashing down on top of her.

“Damn you, woman.” He breathed, biting her bottom lip and then kissing along the nape of her neck whilst trying to pull back his robes. Melisandre could feel the stiffness of his cock against her thigh, even with his smallclothes shielding contact so she bucked her hips a little and Stannis moaned. “Damn you, wife.”

“Stay with me Stannis please; burn the boy tomorrow, and take me.” She opened her eyes and cupped his face, noticing the flashes of desire that burned in his usually cold stare. “Plant your son inside me; I will give you an heir.”

Stannis planted his hands in the soft mattress either side of Melisandre’s head. His eyes wandered over her breasts and down to wear her pale thighs were exposed against his own. Then he looked back up at her and frowned again. “Damn you, Melisandre; get up and get dressed.” He stood and adjusted his robes.

Melisandre sat up on her elbows and regarded him. “You don’t want me?”

“I can have you whenever I want; you’re my wife that’s how this works.”

Melisandre stood and look at him, her eyes cold. “You sound like Robert.”

Stannis flared and for a moment he even looked like his older brother. “Don’t ever compare me to that man, do you hear me? I am nothing like Robert; I’ve never hit you, I hardly ever shout at you and I don’t get drunk.”

Melisandre shrugged and reached for her hooded cloak. “No, but you hardly ever fuck me, either.” She left the room and headed for the beach.  

*****

The pyre was huge; logs piled on logs piled on logs until three lay out in a row for the body to be positioned on top, wrapped in white linen like a swaddled babe. Melisandre pulled up her hood and watched the waves beyond; licking at the shoreline, desperate to douse the imminent flames. Selyse stood beside her with the torch in her hand; her eyes still watery from grief. _She grieves not for the boy, but for his little friend_. Only a few gladiators attended—the ones who had built the pyre remained with Davos, who was already sweating. _It is not the heat that burns him, it is the fear._ Stannis stood with his guards a short distance from her, but far enough away that he would not hear Davos whispering to his Domina when he approached her.

“You can’t let him do this, he’ll—…”

Melisandre cut him off by raising her hand between their faces. “I know, Davos; I am aware of what will happen. Have you prepared the buckets?”

Davos nodded.

“Good, then stand with your slaves and say nothing.”

Davos nodded again and turned to walk away. “Oh, and I have posted guards at Arya’s cell; she won’t escape.” The Doctore slipped away, nodding at his Dominus as he passed. Melisandre watched Stannis grinding his teeth and wondered how much she’d probably offended him already. _I slight my husband far too much. He chose me after all, me and R’hllor_.

Stannis was not one for making speeches; he left the prayers to his wife who chanted softly in her mother tongue and took the torch from Selyse’s hand. She danced around the pyre in all her crimson glory, her hair twisting and billowing in the slight wind that lingered from the ocean. Then came the moment when her prayers ended, and the pyre must be burned.

“May the Lord of Light carry you from this world to the next, and protect you from the darkness.” She hesitated a moment, and then tilted the torch down towards the bottom of the pyre. The wood took a few moments, then the grasses that had been laid beneath caught light and the first row of logs soon followed. Melisandre stepped back and watched the little fire spread along the bottom of the pyre, weak flames growing ever stronger. The smoke was already thick and black, shrouding the body in a curtain of grey. _We haven’t much time._ Melisandre stood beside her husband and placed a hand on his arm, but he pulled away.

“There’s a lot of smoke, that doesn’t normally happen.”

Melisandre shrugged. “The Lord of Light works in mysterious ways. It is a sign, husband; he does not want us to see this boy burn, he would burn him behind the privacy of smoke.”

Stannis was already beginning to cough as the wind from the sea pushed the smoke in their direction. “Get the… men inside and let us retreat back the… villa.” Stannis covered his mouth as the thick black cloud hung heavy over them all, even Melisandre allowed for a small, dainty cough to escape her lips. Stannis and the gladiators, accompanied by the other slaves all made their way back behind the protective wall of the training yard, until only she and Davos remained.

Hidden by the thick smoke, she openly kissed him, and felt his stunted hand run through her hair. “Douse the flames before the logs dry and start to burn. I will return once Stannis is in bed.” She said softly.

Davos nodded. “Yes, Domina.” Melisandre left him to carry the buckets of water hidden behind the rocks scattered across the beach, heading back towards the villa. The taste of the Doctore lingered on her lips, and she could not help but smile. Davos was an honourable man who served his lanista loyally, but Melisandre had him too, often and loudly. _If desire could be doused as easily as flames, I would still be in Asshai._

****

“Is he sleeping?” Davos asked, walking with his Domina across the training yard and back towards the beach.

Melisandre smiled. “Grinding his teeth in his dreams.” She replied, slipping through the steel gate and waiting for Davos to close it behind him. They headed back towards the pyre, where Davos had pulled the body from the logs and laid it out on the sand. Smoke still lingered in the air; wispy and a lighter shade of grey. Melisandre was surprised how well they had smoked; Davos had done a fine job of soaking the logs before they were burned. It gave enough time, and a good distraction to douse the flames and save the body.

Davos took a dagger and sliced through the linen that covered Gendry until the boy’s face appeared, grey and gaunt—mottled with black bruises. “He looks—…”

“…Dead?” Melisandre gently pushed him aside and knelt beside the body “That was the idea, Doctore.” She ran her hands over the boy’s face; her fingers greeted by cold stiffness that not even the pyre had warmed. That was a good sign; the body had not been damaged. Davos stepped back, looking over his shoulder every couple of minutes to check there were no guards watching, while Melisandre brushed the black hair from Gendry’s forehead. She leaned close and brushed her thumb across his lips.

Melisandre felt the fire burn within her, churning in the pit of her stomach and threatening to consume her in flames. “It is time.” Her voice was thick and dark—her eyes glazed over to look like red rubies in her eye sockets. Davos knelt on the other side of the body and hesitantly placed a hand under Gendry’s head, lifting it ever so slightly. Melisandre looked to the stars and began struggling for breath, each short sharp gasp more painful that the last.

“Domina, do it now.” Davos said, but Melisandre continued to look up at the sky, her eyes soulless and impossibly red. Her hair fanned out, framing her face like a halo of blood, twisting like the flames of a fire.

“Domina, quickly!” Davos cried, daring to place a hand on Melisandre’s arm. But she was too hot, and he gasped and took it away. Melisandre could feel her life leaving her, being burned out of her body by the fire. Each breath was less frequent, each one was too painful to imagine.

“MELISANDRE!” Davos screamed, and suddenly she fell forward and her lips crashed against Gendry’s. Fire shot out between her lips and filled Gendry’s mouth, his eyelids sprang open and his whole body twitched and shook. Davos released him and fell back, shielding his eyes from the fire. Melisandre felt air fill her lungs and her eyes refocused slowly. She sat back, regaining her breath, her eyes adjusting to the sudden darkness.

“Seven hells!” Davos whispered.

The man who lay before her came into focus when she blinked back the tears from her eyes. She looked down at him and smiled; her heart warmed by her success, and beating normally once again. She brushed the hair from her face and smoothed down her dress.

“Welcome back, Jaqen H’ghar.” She said, and Jaqen sat up pulling free from the linens. “The night is dark and full of terrors.”

Jaqen looked at her and smiled. “But the fire burns them all away.”


	13. Roslin: Through blood and bruises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roslin establishes her place in the House of Stark, and strikes up a new plan to save one of the gladiators.

Every bruise and beating had made her stronger. Every single hurtful word they’d thrown her way, all the names they’d called her; they were all lessons in how to behave as was expected of a young slave. Her father was pleased when she grew to be a pretty girl; Walder was not best known for breeding desirable daughters. But Roslin was acceptable, and for a while he sought to marry her above his station and earn royalties from her matrimony.

That dream was short lived. Who would marry the child of a slaver? Who would dare be associated with Walder Frey who sold his own brood to make his ends? Certainly not the Lannisters, who had taken one look at Roslin and turned her away, nor the Starks who claimed they had no children suited to Roslin’s needs. _What needs? I only want someone to save me!_  Edmure Tully remained without wife, but rode off the war when Walder approached him. How her father had beaten her bloody that night, and she had been just a child at that; Black Walder ripped her robe from her purple skin, and then Ryman held her wrists above her head while they hit her; even Perwyn kicked her leg when commanded, though he was far more gentle than his cousins. Black Walder was the worst—he would spit in her face and backhand her across the cheek. But his bites were worse. Like a rabid dog; Walder liked to leave his mark on his victims. For weeks after her punishment, Roslin was reduced to little more than a stark reminder of what happens when her father is slighted by the lanistas of Westeros.

They were all fools. Roslin knew that for certain. _They should have married me when I was offered; they should have accepted my father’s proposal and taken me as a wife._ People underestimated Walder far too often and Roslin knew it would soon be their downfall. He did not play the game of gladiators with the other lanistas, no; he infiltrated the game with seemingly innocent pawn pieces and infected the players from the inside out. Though she had not been given her task as yet, Roslin knew she was now set up on the board ready to make her first move. _Perhaps it won’t be so damaging,_ she’d often think, but she knew that meeting the Stark lanista that day was not a coincidence. They had been scheduled to ride for King’s Landing with news that Tyrion Lannister was visiting his family. Her father hoped he’d bring men from the Order of Maesters—those old fools were always looking for someone else to do their mundane chores for them. Maester Pycelle was rumoured to only have female slaves, whom he’d bed almost every night. Roslin had never seen him, but her brother Olyvar swore blind the man was half dead. When news that Edmure was hosting his nephew in Riverrun, Walder changed his plans and had scouts inform him when Robb Stark arrived. Everything was carefully planned; he even made sure Roslin was naked beneath her cloak. Roslin had learned never to ask questions, even when his plans concerned her own welfare.

Robb Stark was too kind for a lanista—too gentle and understanding. Walder had taught Roslin to be meek and weak, to keep her eyes low and her words short. Black Walder had taught her to please her master in other ways. Her skin crawled at such memories, and her dreams were plagued with his face buried against her neck as he pushed her against the wall. But he never took her maidenhead; that was too precious for her cousin and would be worth gold if Robb decided to take her.

But he didn’t. For a while Roslin believed he couldn’t bring himself to fuck a Frey, but as the weeks rolled on and none of the other slaves reported being sent to Dominus’s chambers; Roslin surmised he was not that sort of man. It made her uncomfortable to be treated kindly, as though her vicious upbringing had instilled some sort of comforter within her that made pain a welcome feeling. Being dressed in nice robes, to own a cloak that was not one of her cousins old tattered ones, and more importantly to have Olyvar by her side seem too good to be true. _Father will take this all from me soon, I know it._

She had been given the task of Catelyn’s slave, under the command of Mordane. The plump older woman had a sharp tongue and wicked frown, but Roslin noticed often how her gaze lingered too long when passing the Doctore. Still, Roslin knew better than to say a word. In fact for the longest time she never spoke, save for her courtesies when addressing Domina. In time she found her tongue and would sometimes wish good mornings to the gladiators as they trained, always conscious of how huge they were, and how small she was in comparison.

As of late, Roslin’s main job was to tend the Greatjon, who had been bedridden from the moment she’d arrived. His infected wound that ran the length of his forearm had drained his strength and made him a heap of bones and skin that could not function alone. Sometimes she’d redress the wound, and other times she’d have to wash the gargantuan man to prevent bed sores. The poor man was in excruciating pain, Roslin needed only to look at his arm to see why. Greatjon’s arm was black from elbow to wrist; purple veins bulging out under thin mottled skin. The gash was deep and long, clotted with a thick congealed puss that seeped through the remnants of bandages. His fingers were turning blue, and his nails were yellow. The blood was struggling to reach his hand now, and it would not be long before he lost the arm. And it smelled too—septic and rotten.

“At least it’s not greyscale.” Greatjon teased, flinching only a little when Roslin peeled back the old bandaging to assess any improvement. There was none, of course.

“It is looking a little inflamed today,” Roslin gently touched some of the tender skin, and a creamy white liquid ran down his arm and seeped into the bed sheets “I shall have to rub salt in the centre of the wound and pour vinegar water along the length.” She stood and unravelled the rest of the blood soaked bandaging, before turning back to the desk against the wall of Greatjon’s cell and fished around in the wooden box of supplies for fresh linen to soak in the water. “I managed to salvage some more cotton from one of Domina’s discarded dresses, so that ought to last longer than the thinner stuff. I know it hurts having to rip the bandaging off, and doing so too often won’t give the skin time to heal.”

“If it ever does.” Greatjon mumbled, instinctively reaching for the cup of milk of the poppy on the little wooden box he used as a nightstand in hopes of dulling some of the pain. He drained the cup and sat back, propped against the stone wall.

“Have faith, Greatjon.” Roslin whispered, sitting on the edge of his cot and pinching salt between her fingers. The Greatjon’s leg kicked out as he reeled in unbearable pain, unable to scream out because he was so weak. His eyes welled up with tears, and his right hand curled into a fist. Even after so many weeks of tending the infected wound, Roslin still felt ashamed of causing him so much insufferable pain. She felt as though she were making it worse. _This is certainly not making it any better._ Roslin soothed him with kind words; telling him how much better it would be in the morning, and how in a week he would be able to bathe and dress himself. Then she soaked the linen in the vinegar water. She rinsed the excess water and reached down to press it firmly over the gaping gash, but Greatjon grabbed her wrist. Roslin gasped and tried to pull away, but despite being so lethargic and sickly; Greatjon could overpower her easily with his healthy right hand.

“Please girl, don’t do this.” Roslin looked up from where he held her wrist, and saw the fear in the giant’s eyes. He smiled; lips cracked a split, but soon the smile wavered, and he blinked a few times as if forcing back tears.

“This will make it better, I promise you.”

Greatjon scoffed. “You said that last time. And the time before that. We both know this is not working and the pain—Roslin I’m in so much pain girl, I… I… just…” He cried then. Silently, and with a sort of dignity only an honest man could possess. Roslin sat quietly beside him and bowed her head, allowing the poor man to release some of the fear and anxiety that had been building up inside him for so long. He was now the Stark champion, and what did he have to show for it? A wound he’d won in a fight against some street urchin with a nifty new sword and a death wish. _He doesn’t want to die,_ she thought; _he’s scared of not being remembered for his valiant death on the sands. He’s scared of being a forgotten soul._ In the time Roslin had spent with the Greatjon, he had always been kind and patient with her; allowing her to fumble with his bandages sometimes and have to start again, and he spent hours talking about his life as a gladiator. He was a proud and loyal man, who wanted nothing more than to prove his worth.

When finished sobbing, Roslin offered him the dry linens to wipe his eyes and the Greatjon apologised. “It must be that ruddy milk or something.” He said, laughing a little.

Roslin smiled, and she knew then what options lay before her. “You have every right to weep, Greatjon for it is true; this wound has festered beyond my means of helping you. But a medicus will have salves and potions the Winterfell supplies lack.”

“There is no medicus in Winterfell, girl. The last one died of fever would you believe, and there’s been little need of one since, so never was one sent from Oldtown.”  Men who trained in the business of medicine learned their trade in the same town as Maesters forged their chains and earned their place in the democratic field of managing seven kingdoms. Roslin had once dreamed of being bought by a medicus; to tend his herb garden and learn how to make potent salves that cured all manner of diseases.

Roslin folded her arms across her lap. “Did you know my father is a sickly man, Greatjon? So desperate is he to cling onto his last hair of life that he sent fifteen of my cousins to Oldtown to train in medicines. Only one was deemed acceptable for the task of being a medicus, the rest were returned to him and sold off to some Braavosi tradesman.” She took the tear-soaked linen from Greatjon’s right hand and folded it carefully in her hand. “I always thought my brother Willamen was destined for better things; he’s very intelligent for—…”

“…a Frey?” Greatjon grinned, but then coughed with the effort of doing so.

“Yes, for a Frey. He was returned to my father, and is now is personal medicus. He would be able to help you, Greatjon; I trust in him completely.”

The Greatjon looked irritated now, as though the flicker of hope she’d offered him was already burned out in his mind. “Your father wouldn’t lend his own medicus to a gladiator, girl.”

“No,” Roslin said, and she looked up at the Greatjon with a dark look across her face “but he would if you were my husband.”

For a minute neither of them spoke; Greatjon looked confused and unsure, while Roslin began to regret making such a suggestion. _Even for the sake of his own life, he wouldn’t dare marry a Frey_. She chewed her bottom lip, waiting for his reaction. She didn’t love the Greatjon—she didn’t really love anyone; but Walder Frey wanted what he had never been able to grasp, and that was power. His prettiest daughter had been refused by all of the great Houses of Westeros, and so the next thing would be the most glorified slave in the ranks; the House champion. She could persuade her father to believe that he was only infecting the Starks further if he married her to their champion. _They’ll not sell him after losing Theon,_ she’d tell him. _They need the Greatjon, and you’ll need him on your side too, father. There is only so much I can do as a slave—but a gladiator like him is trusted._ Of course, the conversation went smoothly in her mind; reality would be much different. If there was one thing Roslin knew; it was that her father revelled in control, and while a marriage to a lanista gave him more than the Greatjon could, it was also impossible.

“Your father—…”

“…has no reason to say no. He has no plans to marry me off now that all great Houses have refused him so often and with such vehemence, and so he will welcome the chance to tie himself to one of them in some way. _This_ is a way, Greatjon. And then you will get the medicine you need.” She looked back down at the poor man’s arm. “This needs leeching, and a lot of it. A medicus will also have ointments to salvage the skin and close the wound.”

“And what about the Dominus? He must approve all of this.”

Roslin timidly placed her hand on the Greatjon’s right wrist and smiled. “He won’t risk losing you, I promise.”


	14. Theon: Returned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon meets his new Doctore and offers Robb Stark's terms.

“A favour, is that what he called it?” Balon looked over the parchment placed in his hand by his Doctore. The years had aged him beyond almost all recognition; his hair was lank and grey, his skin was white and paper thin. He stood adjacent to Theon in the training yard; a smaller space than the Starks had, with a sheer drop over the cliffs on one side that overlooked the raging torrent of the sea. “And this boy, he wants me to join my roster to his, does he?”

“I bring terms, ser.” Theon said, unfolding his arms across his chest and standing rigid.

“Oh do you?” Balon looked at him then, his eyes cold and sharp “They bring you back to me in a cloak of grey, with the wolf upon your back and call it a favour?” He handed the parchment back to his Doctore, Victarion and stepped closer to his new stock. Only Theon was not exactly new; he was returned.

Theon had lived on Pyke since he was ten years of age; groomed to be the next House Greyjoy champion. But during the last games, Balon let his ambition take control, and with plans to take hold of Winterfell, sent his men to kill Eddard Stark during a match, while the rest of his men fought in the arena to distract him. The assassins slipped through the crowds and crawled under the wooden beams supporting the seating, before squeezing through under the canopy and scrambling onto the podium—swords in hand.

Eddard killed two of Balon’s greatest gladiators; Rodrik and Maron before so much as blinking, and then the Stark guards managed to wrestle the rest into submission. Theon was taken as collateral damage, and Balon always believed that Eddard raised the Greyjoy boy to champion to spite his previous owners.

When Eddard died, many believed Balon would rise again to take Winterfell as his own, but he did not. He remained surprisingly silent; a mere whisper on a wave. Theon wondered if the time had perhaps made him kinder, but he soon realised it was not so.

“Robb Stark wishes to join your House with his… and your rosters too. If one of your men stands victorious in the upcoming games, the alliance will hold the name Greyjoy, and—…”

“…And I will forever be known as the lanista who bowed before the wolf.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll still be a lanista; you’ll be the Dominus.”

Balon smiled, but there was nothing sincere about the way his lips curled back revealing yellowing teeth. “Will I? Tell me Theon; have you been sold to me?”

Theon frowned. “Yes.”

“And so from this moment until your last, you are my gladiator. Making me _your_ Dominus, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Doctore, what did they boy just call me when he spoke of terms?”

“Ser, Dominus.” Victarion replied, glancing at Theon through tangles of lank black hair. The air hung heavy with salt; Theon could taste it on his lips when he licked them. This place had not been home for a long time. Victarion had not been Doctore the last time he had seen him; the tall, muscular man had been Greyjoy champion. It seemed to Theon that much and more had changed.

“If I agree to these terms, in time my men will be filtered out. The Greyjoy name would be lost.” Balon looked almost sad then, kicking at the dirt beneath his feet. Then he looked up again, and Theon knew instantly what his answer would be. “Fuck Robb Stark’s terms.” He turned on his heels and headed towards the robe bridge connecting to the Great Keep. Victarion sprang into action and followed after his Doctore, while Theon hurried after them.

“Doctore, wait; if you don’t accept these terms, Robb will send for me to be returned.” Theon called, but Balon did not stop. “He says that the price you paid for me was a gift, and if you wish to retain this deal, you must consider these terms.”

Without looking back, Balon spoke. “I’ve considered them, Theon. My answer was given; no.”

Theon stopped at the foot of the robe bridge that swung violently in the harsh wind. _One push and he’d be gone_. He watched his new Dominus and Doctore brave the dangerous journey, a small part of him wishing the bridge to overturn in the wind. But Theon knew what would hurt Dominus more. “You’re right, Dominus, you have given your answer and I shall write to Robb to inform him of your decision,” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth so he could be heard “Robb was rather surprised you chose to accept the _gold_ price in the first place.”

Balon stopped then. Victarion almost careered into the back of him, but Balon turned awkwardly on the narrow bridge and ducked under the Doctore’s arm to face Theon. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t, Dominus. Robb Stark did.” Theon smiled.

“Oh did he?” Balon stalked the length of the rope bridge and stopped when he and Theon were toe-to-toe. “Did he really? How very interesting.” He looked over his shoulder and commanded the Doctore to his side “Bring out our champion, Victarion. I would sample my wares before I agree or decline the wolf’s terms.”  Victarion nodded obediently and headed across the training grounds to the black stone building where the gladiators slept. Outside the wrought iron door was a Greyjoy guard with the kraken brand upon his breastplate. Balon ordered him to fetch Theon a training sword and wooden shin guards.

A moment later, Victarion appeared at the door and the guard let him passed. The Greyjoy champion followed soon after; dressed in a breastplate of broken chainmail and lather, with a helm that covered his face beneath a blanket of dented steel. Theon took his sword from the guard and stood a few metres from his opponent.

“Our champion has defeated every opponent who has taken the challenge, and I suspect you will be the next. But by all means, Theon; try your best.” Balon snorted and stepped back towards the rope bridge with Victarion at his side.

“Begin!” Victarion shouted, and the Greyjoy champion lunged forward suddenly. Theon ducked out of the way and pivoted on his left foot, driving his wooden training sword up towards the helm that covered the champion’s face. _If I can uncover his weakness, I can bring him down._ They were of about equal height, but Theon felt the intense strength with each blow the champion threw at him. Theon spun behind the champion as he was turning and whacked the back of his breastplate with the butt of his sword. He grunted with the effort and stumbled back to give himself breathing space. But the champion gave no such luxuries, and was quickly on him again; hitting his arms and knees over and over again with his wooden sword. Theon kicked out and caught him on the knee, sending the champion reeling back towards Balon.

“Is that the best you have?!” Theon sneered, slicing through the air over and over in a display of his brutal agility. The champion ducked as the sword neared his helm, and twisted swiftly to catch Theon between his legs. From there, the champion lifted the sword up and drove the edge into Theon’s groin. Flashes of white hot pain ripped up his spine and shot through his limbs until all he could do was fall to his knees in unfathomable agony. Tears sprang unbidden from his eyes as he collapsed onto his side, twitching in pain.

“Do you yield?” Balon stood over him with a cunning smile playing across his pinched face. Theon could hardly breathe, let alone reply. “I’ll take your silence for a yes. Victarion help him up.” Theon twisted onto his back and tried to steady his breathing as Victarion hoisted him by his arms.

Theon cried out as Victarion lifted him to his feet; unable to stand straight he found himself shivering as his sweat soaked skin suddenly cooled in the harsh sea air. “Dominus, he will need tending.” Victarion said.

Balon sniffed. “Yes, yes I will send Osha,” he turned back to the champion, who dropped his sword and stood bolt upright with his hands clasped behind his back “show Theon who almost cut his cock off, won’t you?”

The champion bowed his head slowly, and lifted his helm revealing short black hair. “Dominus.”

Theon gasped; a mixture of pain and shock. She stood before him with a smug grin on her face, and tilted her head with her hands on her hips. “Asha.” Her name escaped his lips so suddenly he almost choked on the final syllable. His sister; his big sister… she was a woman now.

“I see you have not forgotten all you left behind on Pyke. Victarion drop the boy and leave them to their family reunion. Training will continue tomorrow.”

Victarion released Theon, who stumble din an attempt to support his own weight. Balon placed a hand on his Doctore’s shoulder as the two of them headed back over the flimsy rope bridge once more.

“You look pained, little brother. Did I hurt you with my wooden stick?” She sneered, picking up both training swords with one hand.

Theon spat. “ _You_ are the champion of House Greyjoy? But you’re… a woman!”

“Well done, Theon; you’ve caught me!” She teased, handing the swords to the guard and then unfastening her breastplate. Theon was not surprised that underneath she was almost as flat-chested as a boy; no doubt she bandaged her breasts to conceal her womanly figure.

“Women are not allowed to fight in the games.”

“You didn’t think I was a woman until I removed my helm, did you?”

“No,” Theon admitted “but you’d have to reveal yourself in front of the other lanistas if you won.”

Asha smiled. “Covered in blood and dirt, bandaged across my chest and with short hair I’d pass for a man at a distance.” She crossed the yard then, and came to stand beside her brother. Theon felt uneasy at their closeness; he hadn’t seen his sister since she was small, and he was smaller still. Perhaps at a distance she could pass for a boy, and certainly when she fought she was believable; but up close Asha was very much a woman.

“Robb Stark wants to join his house with Balon’s.” Theon said.

“Balon won’t agree to that.” Asha replied.

Theon looked over his shoulder at the hazy specks that resembled his new Dominus and Doctore on the other side of the swaying bridge. “I think he has.”

“How do you know?”

“He didn’t let you kill me.” Theon replied, and he felt a strange sense of contentment in his heart for the first time in a long while.


End file.
